


touchy subject

by applecrumbledore



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alcohol, M/M, Sexting, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-02
Updated: 2015-11-25
Packaged: 2018-04-19 14:38:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 49,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4750046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/applecrumbledore/pseuds/applecrumbledore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bitty finds a photo booth strip and almost doesn't recognize Jack because he's not sure he's ever seen him grin off-ice before, and his hair is so long it curls around his ears, and he's so, so young. It takes Bitty a few long seconds to realize the boy he's kissing is Kent Parson, with the same backwards cap and everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. samwell

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cherryfizzies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryfizzies/gifts), [ficteer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficteer/gifts).



> "[four strong winds](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4386680)" by defcontwo made me think about kent and jack having photos together, and i've been thinking about how their previous relationship would affect present day with bitty. so!! that's where this came from.

It's almost midnight and Bitty bounces around his room after he puts the finishing touches on his last term paper of the spring semester. He prints it out on the small wireless printer under his desk—twelve pages, an awful, jumbled-up affair for a nutrition course he's taking as part of his science credit requirements—and stares at the neat APA title page on the stack his hands, and he can hardly believe it's done. Well, he can, because it's due tomorrow and he had better have it done.

But he doesn't have a stapler. He's made the mistake of bringing papers to lecture unstapled, thinking the professor would have one he could use, and when they didn't he had to run around campus in the five minutes before lecture started trying to find one. It was embarrassing, and this time, he's going to strike preemptively.

He tugs down the hem of the big shirt he sleeps in, some ugly Madison, Georgia tourist shirt his mama bought him before he left home, and steps into the hallway with his paper in hand. It's late, for Jack, but his door is still open a bit; leaving his door open is one of the cutest, subtlest "captain" things he does, like a guidance counsellor's "open door" policy: _I'm here if you need to talk_. Because it's Jack and you could have a better heart-to-heart with a stranger you flag down on the street, no one ever does, but it's sweet regardless.

Bitty knocks quietly. "Jack? Sorry to—" He sticks his head in past the door and Jack isn't there, but the door to the bathroom he shares with Shitty is closed and he can hear someone brushing their teeth.

He finds it hard to believe that after four years of post-secondary, Jack "I Get My Papers Done a Week In Advance" Zimmermann doesn't own a stapler, so he carefully pads into the room towards his desk, the lamp still on, Jack's laptop open to an article about religious tensions between Upper and Lower Canada in the 17th century. There's a half empty glass of water next to his laptop, a little jotted pad of notes and a couple stacked books, a few sticky notes stuck to the flat of his desk. It's all so normal. Bitty smiles to himself.

"Okay, okay, stapler. Hm." It's not on the desktop, so he opens one of the drawers. There's a pencil case and a container of thumb tacks, and Bitty lifts them out of the way to get to the back, because it's a deep drawer, and there are stray sheafs of paper and old receipts and—something a little glossy, and creased in the middle, like photo paper.

Bitty plucks it out from under the pencil case without thinking, expecting a postcard or family photo, but. It's a strip, not a rectangle. He turns it over.

It's a photo booth strip, four black and white photos that glow in a way that only photo booth pictures seem to. Bitty recognizes Jack instantly and it takes his breath away because he almost _doesn't_ recognize him, because he's smiling an honest-to-God grin, and he's not sure he's ever seen Jack grin off-ice before, and his hair is so long it curls around his ears, and he's so, so young, younger than Bitty is now. And he's next to someone else, equally as young or maybe even younger, and it takes Bitty a few long seconds to realize it's Kent Parson, with the same backwards cap and everything.

In the first photo, they're squished shoulder to shoulder and Kent's throwing a peace sign.

In the second one, Jack's got his arm around Kent's shoulders, his black t-shirt stretched around biceps that are frankly a lot smaller than they are now; all of Jack looks smaller by some degree, his jaw less wide, shoulders less sloped, all the differences between teenaged and twenty-four pronounced.

In the third one, Kent's pressing a kiss to Jack's cheek, squishing his face with his hand. Jack's got his own hand on the back of Kent's head up under his cap and dug into his shaggy hair, so blond it looks white without colour.

In the last one, Jack's turned his head and pushed back and they're kissing full on the mouth, Kent's ball cap off and crushed in Jack's hand, braced on the wall of the booth, Kent's arm squished awkwardly between them as he grabs onto Jack's jaw. You can see them smiling against each other's mouths, a sweet, goofy kiss for the camera.

Bitty can't breathe. His heart beats so hard it gives him a head rush, all the blood leaving his head for his tingling extremities. He shouldn't be looking at this. He really, really shouldn't have seen this.

The bathroom door creaks open.

He spins around, still holding the photo strip, to see Jack standing in the threshold in a t-shirt and boxer briefs. He looks at the open drawer and what's in Bitty's hand and Bitty can see the exact moment everything shatters in his head.

_"Bittle!"_

This isn't the loud, aggressive bark he got used to hearing from Jack, his captain, in freshman year. It's just as angry, but this is coming from Jack, his friend, and it's quieter but sharp-edged in its outrage and disbelief, which, Bitty is instantly sure, feels much, much worse.

"Jack," he says, dropping the photo strip on the desk as if not holding it will help. He brandishes his term paper like a shield. "I was, uh—a stapler—I don't—" 

Jack looks so impossibly shocked and betrayed that for maybe the first time ever, Bitty stops himself from babbling nervously. He doesn't think he could speak even if he wanted to, too many questions he has no right to ask lodged in his throat—everything from _this is Kent, isn't it? When was this? Were you dating?_ Are _you dating? Do you date boys?_ All the way to _is this why you're always sad?_

He knows if he doesn't say something now, he's never going to know; Jack won't bring it up again. But he also knows this can't be something Jack trusts him with, and it's going to be like before, where he sees something he shouldn't and Jack shuts down and doesn't speak to him until he's ready, and when he does it's not even about the thing. He can't offend Jack by asking, which would do him the complete disservice of suggesting that Bitty doesn't know him at least a little.

Jack comes towards him and he can't move. He flinches. Jack doesn't even brush by him as he picks up the photo strip, shoves it back in the drawer and slams it shut.

"Don't go through my things."

"Jack, I'm so—"

"Don't say a word to anyone."

"I won't!"

" _No one_. Not on the internet, not on the team, not _Shitty_ —"

"Jack," Bitty interrupts. He stops himself from reaching out and touching his arm because it feels like the right thing to do, but now is certainly not the time, and even if it were, him and Jack don't do that, not yet. Maybe after Bitty's had a few beer, Jack has let him press their arms together in a crowded space, nothing anyone couldn't deny (and Bitty's noticed), but beyond that, God. It's not like they hug. It's not like he's ever seen Jack touch anyone outside a celly on purpose, except, honestly, in those photos just now.

"I'm not—" Bitty searches for words, clutching his papers. "I won't ... you know I won't say anything, I would never, it's—lord, of everyone, you know _I_ won't."

It's subtle, but he watches Jack's face and Jack notices the implication, a flicker of recognition of the underlying _we're not so different, you and I_. Bitty doesn't know what to make of it, because he doesn't smile or frown any harder, and whatever he's feeling, if anything, is being felt on a level Bitty's not allowed to reach.

"I'm really sorry," he tries.

"It's okay."

"No, it's—I'm sorry, I'll go."

"Okay."

"Okay. Good. Um, I'll, I guess, see you at practice. G'night."

Jack doesn't say anything back that time. He's still standing awkwardly by his desk fiddling with the front of his t-shirt to have something to do with his hands when Bitty closes his door behind him.

 

 

Jack is awkward at practice the next morning during anything that isn't silently going through drills. He's awkward before they hit the ice and he's awkward afterwards when they're showering up, just in the way he won't make eye contact and anytime someone speaks to him he jumps like he wasn't expecting it. Bitty doesn't try. He wonders if anyone notices; he and Jack have been close lately, as much as anyone but Shitty can be close with Jack, letting their shoulders knock together as they walk to Faber, shoving each other, and Bitty would be lying if he said he didn't like it. But this morning, Jack walked up ahead.

 

 

Later, Bitty sits in class and thinks about Kent Parson. His thoughts oscillate from confusion (does this mean Jack identifies as something other than straight? Has anyone asked?) to anger (the way he heard Kent talk to Jack through his door, the one time Bitty met him) to sadness (did Jack get broken up with? What happened between them during his overdose?) to lust (the idea of Jack and Kent with their hands all over each other, now or then, God, anything).

He tunes out of lecture and types Kent's name into Google. It comes up with his stats page on NHL.com, news about his recent games, and, to Bitty's surprise, his Twitter. Bitty clicks.

His account is verified. He doesn't tweet about much, mostly sports things, bratty conversations with guys on his team and retweets of articles about himself (Bitty laughs). Sometimes he tweets normal life things: "accidentally dropped my phone and said 'sorry' out loud to it" and "if i had a dog i'd train them to look demurely away when you wink at them.” Bitty opens his media tab and it's mostly hockey shots, but sometimes it's photos of his little cat, or photos of him, taken by himself or people who look like his friends; at the beach, working out, partying. Kent's a shade paler than Bitty and impossibly blond, his hair that one step away from being actually curly so that it's always just messy-looking, always sticking up. He's got a strong jaw. By the looks of it, he's not much bigger than Bitty, and when Bitty recalls meeting him he remembers his shock at that, this NHL star being no more than a few inches taller than him, and slender. But then he remembers that _Men’s Health_ cover, and his toned abs and big arms, and he goes back to feeling bad about himself.

He seems happy, if not a little vapid, but Bitty doesn't know him. He's sure _he_ would sound stupid too, based on his Twitter alone.

In a moment of weakness, sure that Kent won't remember who he is, he follows him.

 

 

When Bitty's in line at Annie's three hours later, he gets a notification that @kentparson has favourited his months-old tweet about Jack leaping over a snowbank to ask him to coffee. Then: @kentparson followed you back!

 

 

Jack's weird for a couple more days, and then he's back to normal, but not the "normal" he'd been getting to with Bitty recently, with the smiling and the honest conversations and the shoulder nudges. Bitty notices that's missing. Jack says his normal good mornings and good nights and they talk about hockey, but he's guarded and stiff, and Bitty wants to say, _I don't care who you've been with and I'm not going to tell anyone_ , but he doesn't know how. There's no way that seems appropriate.

 

 

They win their game on Friday and Jack scores twice and it's the first time Bitty's seen him smile all week. He's sure everyone can tell that something's up between them—Shitty tried to ask about it yesterday but Bitty insisted he didn't know anything—but they throw a party because they don't think it matters to Jack either way.

Bitty doesn't drink much because he's worried it'll make him brave enough to say something to Jack, but he got an assist on one of Jack's goals so the guys make him do a keg stand. 

 

 

He didn't see where Jack left to, but he has a pretty good idea. He creeps up the stairs, away from the hot press of bodies in the kitchen and living room, not sure how Ransom and Holster always get so many people to come to their sloppy parties on short notice, not sure _who_ is picking the music because it's some impressively awful dubstep—but he _is_ sure that he isn't unacceptably drunk, and sure that he needs to talk to Jack. He doesn't have to say anything, exactly, just ... present himself, as a friend, on the off chance that Jack would want to talk about his feelings. He can't imagine anything being so unlikely, but at least this way he can go back downstairs and get drunk to make himself feel better if it goes badly.

He remembers Jack's soft sigh the last time he tried to check in with him post-Kent, during practice at the frozen-over pond, their fist bump afterwards. That had been okay, but that was admittedly different. Now he knows that there's probably this entire confusing framework of feelings that go with Kent Parson, and he tries not to think about what he and Jack might have been doing behind that door, other than arguing. Bitty can't remember if he heard any long, suspicious pauses.

 

 

Jack's door is technically open, but the door's touching the frame. He raps softly. "Jack?"

"Come in."

Jack's at his desk in jeans and a sweatshirt and socked feet, which is absurdly, unfairly cute. His hair is damp from a recent shower that Bitty can smell through the open bathroom door, Old Spice and American Crew. Not that he's checked. His laptop is shut and he has a book open.

"Hi," Bitty says, and feels dumb, because they live together. Something about ‘hi’ seems trite.

Jack sort of smiles. "Hey."

"Not downstairs?"

"Nah. Not tonight."

"Yeah. Makes sense. It's, um. Busy." Bitty takes a cautious step over the threshold and shuts the door behind him. "Reading for class?"

Jack shakes his head and turns his book over, hand keeping his page. "Regular reading, actually. My mom lent it to me."

"Oh. That's nice." He doesn't want to make the kind of small talk required to ask about the book, because Jack knows that he knows that Jack knows that he doesn't read, or not like Jack does, taking on big novels for fun.

Bitty stands there for a few long moments, wringing his hands. Now that Jack's looking at him, he isn't so sure about his sobriety. He keeps thinking about Jack and Kent in ways he feels guilty about, the thought of Jack being with another man too much to handle. And his imagination goes rampant thinking about Kent being small and blond like how _he's_ small and blond.

Jack blinks at him. "Are you alright?"

"What? Yes."

"Do you ... want to sit?" Jack gestures awkwardly at the bed after realizing that's the only other seat. For reasons Bitty isn't sure of, he says, “Oh, sure,” and perches on the edge of Jack's bed.

Jack spins around in his chair, scuffs his feet on the floor. He still has his hand in his book. Like a good host, he asks, "Do you need anything? Or ..."

"No!" Bitty says quickly. "No, I—I don't know what I'm ..."

"You can just sit, if you want," Jack offers, not quite looking at him. "It's loud out there."

"Oh. Sure." Bitty slumps a little, tugs at the sleeves of his shirt and tries to smile. This is nice, this has to be a good thing. At least Jack's looking him in the eye again. "Thanks."

Jack nods and opens his book and leans back in his chair. Bitty scoots until his back is against the wall, and Jack's bed is so big his feet don't hang off the end, even sitting sideways. He can hear the music from downstairs pumping through the floor, but it's quieter here, like Jack's room learned silence from him. Bitty pulls his phone out and scrolls through Twitter and listens to Jack turn pages every so often.

Kent favourited something he tweeted earlier today about winning their game.

He goes through Kent's Twitter again, seeing what he's said. Nothing of consequence; the Aces won their last game, too. It's so tempting to send him a DM about Jack and ask _him_ the hundreds of questions bubbling up inside him, because Jack said "don't say a word to anyone," and that could mean about him and Kent, in which case talking to Kent himself wouldn't matter, or he could have meant "don't tell anyone that you saw," in which case it would. Both are a stretch, he knows, so he doesn't message Kent. He puts his phone down on the bedspread and closes his eyes. He stops being able to hear Jack turn pages.

 

 

He isn't sure how long he sits there for, maybe twenty minutes or maybe an hour. He almost falls asleep, because the room is warm and quiet and Jack's bed smells like Jack, and he has silly schoolboy fantasies about falling asleep here and Jack letting him stay, climbing into bed next to him.

He jumps when Jack suddenly speaks.

"Sorry I've been weird."

"What?" Bitty opens his eyes. "No, don't apologize, you've got nothing ... it was my fault. I shouldn't have ..." He trails off because they both know how the sentence ends.

Jack doesn't say anything for a long time, but he puts his book on his desk and clasps his hands between his knees. Bitty watches him, eyes tracking over his frown, his throat, his big arms hidden under his sweatshirt. He doesn't expect to get anything else out of him, but then he goes on. He doesn't look up.

"I kept them because I don't remember."

Bitty raises his eyebrows. "I'm sorry?"

"I kept those photos because I don't remember being there, taking them." Jack rubs his neck. "It was a month before the draft, and I was just, like ... high, and numb, all the time. I don't even remember where we were."

Bitty gasps a soft, devastated breath and Jack's sad, quickly-spoken words ring in his ears, _I don't remember being there_. The teenage Jack in those photos, with his big smile and a cute boy under his arm, must have hardly known what was going on.

"Oh, Jack."

"I just ..." His hands ball into fists. "I look happy. I don't know. It's a reminder, I guess. That I missed something, because of how I was."

"Jack, that's—" The saddest thing he's ever heard. "How long were you ... like that?"

Jack shrugs, and for a second his eyes flick to Bitty's and Bitty's run through by the intimacy of it, even though they're a room apart.

"For six months, ish, I'd just—if I wasn't on the ice, I'd up my dosage. 'Til nothing was anything, 'cause it was just. A lot. All of it." He looks up again, then back down. "Or. Did you mean Parse?"

Parse. Bitty remembers now, vividly, Jack's quiet voice through wood and drywall, _Kenny_. In retrospect, he should have known.

"Both, I suppose." Bitty looks down at his feet. "I'm sorry, you don't have to—"

"No, no, it's—whatever." He waves his hand. "That lasted ... longer."

He doesn't say anything else. Bitty doesn't press him, but he wants to say, _I figured_. If the kiss in the photo booth had been a one-time thing or something else easy to explain, he would have explained it. His silence means a lot more, an unspoken "it's complicated," maybe an entire relationship; Bitty's mind reels at the idea of Jack having feelings for anyone, let alone Kent Parson.

If Jack were anyone else he might get up and hug him, because he's never heard Jack talk about his substance abuse, and he only knows about it in bits and pieces through others, and that one time in the bar when SportsCenter was on and Jack looked like he was going to shatter into a thousand pieces. He never thought he'd hear anything right from Jack.

"It's not like I look at them," Jack says. Bitty looks up. "The photos," he adds.

"Oh! No. Yeah, I ..." He fiddles with his hands. "Are you and him still, um."

_"No,"_ Jack says, firmly. He looks less sad than before, more embarrassed. "That's—we were kids."

"Oh." Bitty hears: _it was a phase._ Hope he wouldn't have admitted to having dislodges itself from the uncomfortable, private centre of his being where thoughts about Jack go, and falls away.

"Well, I mean ... too much happened, and he's—and I'm here, and it wouldn't ... it's not good. Or, it wouldn't be. I don't know." Jack stops and runs both hands over his face and, from behind them, laughs weakly. "I'm being awkward, aren't I?"

"No!" Bitty yelps. "Please, it's fine, I'm glad you're—you never talk about yourself, I don't mind, it's nice. I get it." Jack looks up at him then, and he almost doesn't keep talking. "Not about, um, drugs, but the other stuff. I know what it's like to—" Then it's his turn to laugh, and he looks down. "God, what am I saying, I've never even _dated_ anyone. Never mind, I'm sorry. I have no idea what you're going through. Or, went through, I guess."

Jack says, "It's okay," and it's startlingly soft. "I wouldn't want you to."

They both look up at the same time. Again, it's ... intense. A little intimate. Jack's chair has rolled marginally closer to the bed. Bitty isn't sure if he's reading anything into this but he wants so much; he wants Jack to be surprised that he hasn't dated anyone, he wants to slide smoothly into some controlled, adult conversation where he asks _so does this mean you're single_ and Jack comes and sits on the bed and they kiss, suddenly, and it's perfect, but neither of them move, and somehow Bitty can't speak. He keeps thinking about a young Jack taking pills with shaking hands, telling Kent everything is fine. Did Kent used to yell at him then, the way he did when he was here?

"How old were you?" Bitty asks. "In those."

"I think eighteen."

"Oh." Bitty smiles. "Your hair was long."

"Yeah." Jack kind of smiles too, like he's more grateful than anything for the release of tension. "I got it cut when I started here. I look like a little kid when it's long."

Bitty says, "It was cute," before he thinks better of it, and he can feel his ears get hot. But Jack just smiles at him.

"Sure, Bittle."

It's embarrassing, but he likes it. It's a good kind of embarrassed, Jack chirping him, like he's recognizing Bitty's awkward half-flirting without entirely saying no. Or maybe Bitty's just imagining it.

 

  

Bitty has a dream about Kent Parson and it's weird. He thinks it's Kent, in that vague dreamlike way where you just have feelings, and you can't put anyone's face together specifically. They're somewhere crowded, an amusement park or a mall, and Jack is there. He knows it's Jack because he can feel his arm pressing into his shoulder at the exact height Jack's does, below his bicep, and he has that bubbly excited feeling in his chest like he does when he's around Jack, and he knows it's Kent because—well, he doesn't know why, he just does. They're being ushered along in a crowd and he hears Jack laugh, and there's pressure at the small of his back, a hand, and Kent says, "Get your shit together, Zimms," and then he lifts Bitty's hand and presses his shiny white cellphone into his palm, fingers looped around his wrist. "Here," he says, face closer to his than Jack's is, with their height. "Do it."

 

  

Bitty wakes up with a jolt, the dream already slipping through his fingers. He's dreamt about Jack before, in infinitely more embarrassing situations, but somehow the presence of Kent, whom Bitty doesn't even _know_ , seems like a step too far.

It's still early. He pulls on shorts and a t-shirt and leaves for a run because the weather is beautiful and he needs to get out of the house.

He can hardly believe the difference being on the Samwell team has made for his athleticism, as much by Jack's strict team workout regime as Ransom and Holster chirping him for how little he could bench press in freshman year. He had always liked running, but his cardio was never very good, and it was so hot and dry in Georgia that he had to get up at impossible hours to beat the heat and actually enjoy himself. It's easy in Massachusetts, where they actually have four seasons and summer doesn't start until June, like it's supposed to.

He likes running because it's cathartic, being left alone with nothing but your thoughts, your music and something to do with your body. It's nice, even if his thoughts drift to Jack today, as they usually do; watching him last night, his clasped hands, his small voice, his admission. Bitty doesn't think he's ever thought of anything as sad as a young, promising athlete being so high on anti-anxiety medication that he doesn't remember taking sweet photo booth pictures with the boy he's seeing—who is also, if he remembers what Shitty said the one time they spoke about Kent, his best friend. It hurts more that it's Jack, who tries so hard and still blames himself for everything, who's so genuinely kind but at the same time, so hard to read, and dark, who just wants—Bitty doesn't know what Jack wants, really. To play hockey, he figures. To stay clean.

But he kept those photos of him and Kent, so does that mean he wants something else? Their relationship must have been romantic. You can't fool around with your best friend and _not_ have feelings for them, they're your best friend. Would Jack want that again, with anyone? Bitty wants to say he can't imagine anyone fitting into the life of practices and games and travel and training that Jack is going to build for himself post-Samwell, but he sort of can. And he sort of has already, lots of times, and it's _him_. 

He's not clingy, he's his own person. Jack could be gone a lot. They could have their own lives, and be together when they could, and it would work. Splitting a closet and a chest of drawers in an apartment with a nice kitchen and a giant bed and bay windows. Snapchats from airports. Long weekends in Montreal. A Falconers t-shirt in Bitty's size with ZIMMERMANN on the back.

Bitty shakes his head and slows his run to a halt, stumbling, and bows in half, out of breath. His hands shake with dehydration and exhaustion and he braces them on his knees.

He's so embarrassed that he thinks about this stuff, a life with Jack without Jack's consent. It feels like a violation of trust between friends and teammates—Jack's going about his day, confiding in him about some of the worst, most vulnerable parts of himself, and he's painting this sickly sweet future where Jack skypes him sitting cross-legged on hotel room beds and tells him he misses him. He knows it's not his fault that he likes Jack, but some remnants of locker-room bro-code make it seem dishonest.

 

He starts running again and his chest burns. XO by Beyoncé comes up on shuffle and he skips it.

 

When he gets back to the Haus, Jack is just locking the front door. Bitty stops jogging when he hits the front walk, as if his red face and sweat will go away in the three seconds it's going to take him to reach Jack. He smooths his hair down at the back where he knows it's sticking up from sleep.

"Hi," he says, breathless, as he meets him halfway through the yard. They stop in front of each other and Bitty plucks at his shirt where it sticks to his chest, thinks about the wisps of that dream he remembers, having Jack and Kent pressed to each of his sides.

"Hey," Jack says back, completely normal, and Bitty's surprised. He looks right at him and everything. He's wearing a blue hoodie and he looks bright and awake and clean. "Good run?"

"Yeah. Went—" Bitty takes a deep breath. "—Went a bit too hard, don't know what I was—thinking."

Jack smiles and says, "Have eggs for breakfast, then. You've gotta build muscle," and it's light, teasing, and he bumps his arm into Bitty's as he steps by him. 

Bitty can hardly believe it. He watches Jack's retreating back and sputters, "I'm building _plenty_ of muscle, thank you very _much_!" and he wants to yell, _who are you and what have you done with Jack Zimmermann?_

 

 

After his shower, he tweets, _If Jack doesn't stop telling me to eat protein, I'm going to get disgustingly ripped this summer and see how he likes THAT._

 

He's in line at the dining hall later, grudgingly scooping eggs, when Kent Parson favourites the tweet.

 

 

The idea of Jack not being straight throws Bitty for a loop. If he isn't straight, then does he know that Bitty isn't? Bitty told Ransom, Shitty and Holster, and that's everyone in the Haus _but_ Jack, because he expected it would slowly get to him and the rest of the team—after a point, he didn't care that they knew, but he didn't want some awkward confession where he sat them down and told them, especially not with Jack. 

So, Bitty reasons, if Jack knows he likes guys and _Jack_ likes guys, then they're just two guys, who like guys, who live together, who are definitely not dating each other. That means the ball has been in Jack's court longer than Bitty knew there was any ball to speak of.

Which, whatever. Bitty's fine with that. Jack being straight was just one of the many inevitable things that meant him and Jack are never going to be together; Jack's a famous athlete, soon to be a professional famous athlete. His dad is beyond wealthy. Jack’s going to be independently wealthy himself. His body is going to be insured for more than any house Bitty will ever live in. He's over six feet tall, and his biceps are as big as Bitty's neck. There are photos of his butt on Tumblr. Jack being straight was definitely only _one_ reason Bitty didn't think it would happen, and with that out of the way, the situation is almost sadder: before, he wasn't in the running, but now he is, and he's losing.

He tries not to think about it. Jack's being nice to him, their team's doing well, and he has about a month and a half left of Jack living across the hall, of having breakfast with him and seeing him walk from his room to the laundry room in his boxers on Wednesday nights, and that's honestly more than he could have asked for, anyways.


	2. samwell

 

Bitty is absolutely sober when he decides to DM Kent Parson. 

 

He's on a bus back from city centre, where he went to a fancy grocery store to find hemp hearts, which neither of the (frankly, poorly stocked) on-campus Stop-n-Shops carry, and Kent favourites a tweet he made about Jack watching him play Smash Bros with Shitty and asking whether Jigglypuff was a boy or a girl.

He stares down at the notification, Kent's little face next to his name. Jack's been different lately, and he has _no_ idea if it’s different like he _likes him_ or different like ... well, something else. He doesn’t want to make a move if he isn’t sure, but Jack’s graduating soon, and what if he passes up his only chance? Bitty can't talk to Shitty, who is kind and smart, but too close to the situation, and it would put him in an awkward position. He doesn’t really have friends outside the team, and he can’t talk to his mom about this, and, honestly, who would know more about Jack than Kent Parson? He and Kent follow each other. That means they’re basically friends.

He opens Kent's profile. His last tweet was from half an hour ago, about DJs playing Miley Cyrus in bars. He must be out. Bitty opens the direct messages tab, and taps out _hello_ , erases it and puts _hi._ He stares at it for so long that he almost misses his stop, and as he stumbles off he bus with his grocery bags, he hits send.

It's late on a weekday and it's a quiet walk through campus. He takes a small, satisfied kind of pride in knowing that this time last year, he would have struggled to carry grocery bags this heavy, but now they're nothing, and it feels good.

His phone buzzes in his pocket as he turns onto frat row, and he fishes it out.

@kentparson has messaged you: _hey sup_

He doesn't know what to say to that. He thinks about how star struck he got the first time he met Kent face to face, even though he tried his hardest to be normal. It was embarrassing. He’s lucky he’s not like that around _Jack,_ even. He maneuvers his keys out and lets himself into the Haus, and gets greeted loudly by Shitty, Holster, Chowder and Nursey, all piled onto the couch watching TV. Jack is behind them, holding a mug and leaning on the back of the couch, obviously passing through.

"Our little man!" Shitty hollers. "Put that shit down and come watch Dogs With Jobs with us right now, it's so fucking great."

"These guys are just, totally doing the best they can. It's amazing."

Bitty laughs, clucks his tongue at Chowder and Nursey. "You boys don't live here, and it's end of semester. Don't you have papers, or projects ..."

Chowder extracts his limbs from where they're trapped between Nursey and the arm of the couch. "Bitty, oh my God, though, this black lab, right? She could predict when her owner, who had epilepsy, was gonna have a seizure!! How amazing is that? I can't do that! I'm not as smart as that dog!"

"Don't sell yourself short," Jack says from behind the couch, and noogies Chowder. He comes around the side of the couch towards Bitty and smiles. "Here, give."

"I was just thinking about how I'm proud of myself for being able to carry these, look!" He does bicep curls with one of the bags. "Eh? Boys?"

"Real proud of you, Bits," Holster agrees.

"You'd do better if you didn't have a death grip on your phone." Jack lifts the grocery bag out of the inside of his arm and carries it to the kitchen. "Who're you texting?"

"Uh, Bitty doesn't have other friends, Jack," Shitty calls after them. "That would be _rude_."

Bitty laughs and pointedly ignores Jack's question.

  


 

Later, after the groceries have been put away and he has watched fifteen minutes of Dogs With Jobs, he retreats upstairs. He washes his face, brushes his teeth and climbs into bed, and in the dark, he opens Twitter. He has no idea what time zone Kent is in, but it doesn't matter because Twitter, even direct messaging, is pretty unobtrusive as far as communication goes. Bitty types a reply.

_Nothing, just wanted to say hi. We only sort of met._

Surprisingly, it's only a minute before Kent replies.

_yeah and now we're twitter buddies apparently_

_Sure looks like it. Is this a good time, i don't want to bother you_

_nah it's cool im out. but if this is how i find out some bad news about Zimms im gonna be pissed though_

_no! No, he's fine. Good health, etc._

_alright but this IS about him isn't it? little late in the eve to be asking about hockey._

Bitty hesitates. What _is_ this about? Jack, primarily. He didn't have a game plan going into this, he just knew that he wanted to say something, but what? In retrospect, asking someone's ex about them is maybe the worst thing a person could do. Before he can think of a reply, Kent sends one.

_ok well that's a definite yes, and cool whatever but if this is what i think it is I don't want this shit on my phone. incriminating, &c_

Bitty can't believe he's so open about it, even saying that much. What else could that mean? He doesn’t want it on his phone, and Bitty would _know_ if there was an out NHL player, but what if he’s out to his friends? His family? His _team?_ Is that even possible?

_Sorry, that makes sense._

_yeah, just being smart. wanna go for coffee or some shit_

Bitty blinks at his screen in the dark.

_Where ARE you?_

_NY but i can be wherever. off season. $$. you know_

_What, you'd fly here? Why would you do that?_

_honestly i like the scenery and i wanna see where you're going with this, is that good enough_

Bitty almost drops his phone on his face. Did Kent Parson just ask him out? He must be misreading the situation, there’s no way. He knows this is about Jack. It’s essentially a business call. He hesitates.

_If you're sure you don't mind ..._

_np it might be funny. is j gonna be there?_

_Uh. Not unless you want him to be._

_nonono just checking. w/e, give me your number ill text you when i've got a date_

_Date._ Not like that. Definitely not like that. Bitty gives him his number, along with another awkward thank you, his body buzzing in disbelief. His number is going in Kent’s phone. He's going for coffee with Kent Parson, leading scorer in the NHL, Stanley Cup winner and Jack Zimmermann's secret ex-boyfriend.

When he’s still lying in bed blinking up at the ceiling after a few minutes, his phone lights up again. It's a text from an unknown number.

_hey it's kent. btw are you hitting on me or_

Bitty makes a noise in the dark. He turns over and props himself up on his elbows, presses his phone into his pillow. He knows this isn’t as big a deal as he thinks it is, and he’s jumping to conclusions, totally, definitely, but also it’s _Kent fucking Parson_ and he’s only human. This is so, so bad.

_Honestly, I have no idea._

When he hits send, his stomach drops with adrenaline. He’s so stupid, this is Jack’s _ex!_ They don’t even get along anymore, what is he—He types again before Kent can respond.

_Is that okay?_

The little ‘typing’ ellipse doesn’t come up right away, and when it does, it’s there for a long time. It’s not like Bitty’s going to sleep _now,_ so he opens Twitter and scrolls idly and tries to stop his heart from beating so hard. Then _Kent Parson: Message_ shows up at the top of his screen and he wants to die. It’s not like he said he _was_ hitting on him, and he’s _not_ , he hasn’t said anything that could possibly be misconstrued as being _into Kent_ , but—would he, had he known Kent might ...?

His phone bings again with another text, also Kent. He opens them.

_hahahaha shit uhhh_

_yyyyyyyes. that’s ok_

_Oh my God I’m sorry I shouldn’t have said that_

_no dude i asked. iiiii gotta go but ill text you, ttyl_

He huffs and flops onto his back, letting his phone fall from his hand. He scared him off. He should have said _no,_ stuck to the plan regarding Jack, and just _not_ been a desperate teenage boy for once in his ridiculous life. What does he actually think is going to happen? He goes on a _romantic date_ with a professional athlete? They’re talking business. They’re talking Jack—sweet, sweet Jack Zimmermann, who lives across the hall, who’s been ruffling Bitty’s hair and bugging him and bumping his shoulder, who Bitty has the biggest, most sappy, puppydog crush on that he hates and loves in exactly equal measures.

It’s about Jack—who’s been with Kent. Who, at eighteen, almost Bitty’s age, did things with Kent Parson that Bitty’s never done with anybody, things Bitty can only imagine in a slurry of ill-advised daydreams; teeth and tongues and hands and cocks, Jack’s blue eyes wild, Kent’s bright blond hair sweaty and pushed back, threaded through fingers.

Bitty yanks his pillow out from under his head and screams into it for a very long time.

 

 

Kent gets back to him in a few days and they set a date for the following Thursday in Boston. Bitty doesn't know what to wear. He goes with a t-shirt over anything dapper or cute—because if Kent is even remotely like Jack, he wants to minimize the number of things he might be chirped for—and the weather is nice enough that he doesn't need a sweater. He tells the Haus via group chat that he won't be home until later (and gets accused of going on a date) and then gets on a bus into Boston listening to the most confidence-boosting music he can think of, and tries to figure out what he's going to say to Kent. If he even shows up.

He waits at the downtown corner they agreed on and scrolls through Twitter. He tweets, _It's weird tweeting about someone when you're sure they're going to see it._ And then, _Anyways, I think I'm doing something stupid._

After two more minutes, Kent, of course, favourites that tweet, and Bitty thinks wryly about the wordless chirping opportunities Twitter affords.

Another minute after that, just when Bitty thinks this was all a big misunderstanding, Kent comes around the corner, and Bitty doesn't want to be star struck but he definitely, definitely is. Kent's wearing a crisp white t-shirt, a plaid flannel and dark jeans. He's a little taller than Bitty remembered, maybe half a head taller than him, not that that's saying much. He has a strong jaw and neat eyebrows and Bitty has no idea what colour to call his eyes. And he just thinks, in the same way he does about Jack, that so many people know who Kent is. He's famous. He's been on the cover of magazines. He won the Stanley Cup. That's easy to forget when you're joking around on Twitter and hard to forget that when they're standing in front of you. Bitty jams one hand in his pocket and offers the other to Kent, awkwardly.

"Hi." They shake hands.

Kent's smiling at him and it's not necessarily nice, but it's not malicious. It's amused.

"Hey. Sorry I'm late."

"No, no, it's fine, I just got here." Bitty looks around and rubs his arm. "Where, um, do you want to go?"

"I think there's a sports bar down the street."

_Great_. Bitty looks down. "Uh, I'm underage."

Kent raises his eyebrows, then catches himself. He shrugs. "Let's try. No one gets ID'd with me."

They start off down the sidewalk and Bitty says, "You hang out with a lot of underaged folks?" and Kent boggles at him.

"Aren't you fuckin' brazen? We've known each other for two minutes and you're throwing accusations."

"Just saying."

"Real nice," Kent gripes, but he's smiling, and Bitty ticks a mental victory, a leveled playing field.

They get to the sports bar and it's pitch black inside and smells like fry oil so Kent asks to be seated on the patio. As they settle into two high chairs around a black bar table, Bitty asks, "Aren't you worried about getting noticed? This is a pretty ... hockey-loving city."

Kent shrugs. "Not really. People know the name and number, but like, how many people could pick Sidney Crosby out of a lineup?"

Bitty nods. "Right." It's not like he's an actor, he's not famous for his face. Well, maybe within the league—Bitty has no idea how that works. He knows there are some beautiful hockey players and some who are much better with their helmets on, and Kent is ... well. That goes without saying.

But then their server comes up and looks Kent in the eyes for a couple seconds too long. He sets down glasses of water and drink menus and disappears again, and Bitty hides his hands under the table so he can fidget without being noticed. He's sitting across from one of the most famous hockey players out there. And they're about to talk about a boy.

"What year are you in at Samwell?" Kent asks without looking up from the menu.

"Sophomore," he says, and Kent glances up at him, appraising, then back down.

"How old are you, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Twenty in two weeks."

Kent clicks his tongue, smirks at his menu. "Right."

Bitty blushes, sensing an underlying train of thought, and thinks _God, this is so embarrassing, he must know exactly why I'm here._ A little boy with a crush. A crush on whom, he's not entirely sure.

"What's your major?"

"American Studies, I think, but I haven't declared."

Kent hums a one-syllable reply and folds up his menu, lays it on the table. Bitty puts his down, too. He looks at Kent and doesn't know him well enough to tell if he's tense, but he's sitting up very straight. They must look a little ridiculous together, two awkward young men so obviously unaccustomed to being in each other's company. Kent, with his stupid, nice biceps, and Bitty with his ... nice hair, at least.

The waiter comes back. "So, you gentlemen looking to get some drinks?"

"Yeah," Kent says. "Can I get a glass of the porter?"

"And I'll just have a Heineken, please."

The waiter's eyes track over Bitty's face. "Could I see some ID?"

Kent laughs, short, sharp and bratty. "Oh, c'mon."

The waiter looks at him, at first angry and then, suddenly, surprised.

"You're not—Kent Parson?"

Kent smiles. "Yep!"

"Man, I've been trying to figure out if it's you this whole time." He shakes Kent's hand, hard. "That's—this is so cool, man, congrats on the cup."

"Thanks, man, that means a lot."

"You're—yeah! You're welcome! What brings you to Boston? I've never seen you around before."

"Visiting a friend," he says coolly, gesturing at Bitty.

"Right! Cool, dude, yeah. I'll be right back with your drinks—is it—would it be weird if I got you to sign something for me? My buddies are big fans, they're gonna flip."

"Yeah, no problem," Kent says, all chill and crooked smile, dazzling, and the waiter leaves. Kent grins at Bitty. "See? Simple."

"Impressively manipulative."

"Oh, whatever. It's a sports bar, I knew he'd know. It's not like I whip that out at the Cactus Club."

"I bet."

They sit in awkward silence for a few long seconds, Bitty watching Kent watching him, his eyes flicking from his own to down his chest to his arms. It's tense. It's not entirely uncomfortable, but it's weird, because they both know that they're waiting to talk about what they're waiting to talk about, which is definitely Jack. Or—something else. Bitty can’t tell.

The waiter comes back with their drinks and gets Kent to sign three different pieces of receipt paper; he asks for a photo and Kent says yes but adds, "Don't tag me in anything." Bitty is belatedly embarrassed that _he_ asked for a photo with Kent last time they saw each other, but it’s not like he knew they’d see each other again.

Bitty drinks, grateful for the soothing potential of non-sobriety, and tries to figure out how he's going to phrase what he came here to ask without incriminating or insulting Kent. Or himself.

The waiter leaves and Kent laughs and pushes his hair back. "Dudes are so weird. It's _so_ weird to have these guys, like, way older than me, talking about how they're my fans and shit. Fucking bizarre."

"You're a pretty big deal now," Bitty says, a little more teasing than he meant it to be.

"I guess. It still feels so weird." He takes a drink, keeping his eyes on Bitty. "Aaaand, speaking of weird. What's up?"

This is it. Bitty looks into the dark of the bar, over the side of the patio into the street, as people pass by on the sidewalk. "Um. I don't know. I feel stupid asking you to just—out of the blue."

"Well, you did, and I said yes, so I guess we're both stupid."

"Yeah." Bitty plays with the label on his beer and tries not to peel it off, thinks about earlier, _are you hitting on me or_. And his reply. "It's ... about Jack."

"I figured," Kent sighs. There’s almost a bite to it. Bitty wonders if he gets asked about Jack a lot. "Not to be super paranoid, but if this is—let's not use his name. Fanboy McSportsBar might be hovering."

"Right, yeah. Sorry."

Kent shakes his head, gestures like _go on._

"Yeah. Um. About him. I ... it's ... a touchy subject."

"Always is."

"Yeah. So, without ... incriminating anybody, or saying what each of us does or doesn't know about a certain someone's past, um, relationships, let's assume we are both talking about the same thing we both know about ... him."

Kent's eyebrows rise. He makes a wordless motion with his hand, a flick of fingers between himself and an unseen other, Jack.

"Yeah," Bitty confirms.

"How in the fuck do you know about that? Not to be a dick or anything."

Bitty's glad he thinks of not telling Kent about the photos before it's too late. Learning your ex still has photos you took together when you were eighteen and they were in the throes of a pretty serious drug addiction is a lot of information, none of which Kent should hear coming from Bitty. But on that note, who knows what kind of memorabilia Kent kept.

When Bitty doesn't say anything, Kent asks, "Are you and him ... together?”

“Oh my God! No.” Bitty laughs at the thought. Why does that sound so funny? It shouldn’t, that’s why he’s _here_ , because he thinks Jack could like him. Just—hearing it from someone else, that Jack Zimmermann could ever be interested in him, is ... funny.

“Okay,” Kent says. “Uh. Well, _please_ tell me he didn't send you to talk to me or some shit, because that would be beyond fucked."

"No!" Bitty says quickly. "He doesn't even know I'm here. This isn't ... it's not about that."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm not here to, I don't know, grill you about him, or how you two—" Bitty stops when Kent makes a face that says _shut up_. "Anyways, I'm not. That's what's so stupid, I guess, because technically ..." He folds his hands in his lap. "I'm asking for advice?"

"Oh my God," Kent says right away, and holds up his hand for Bitty to stop. He downs the entire second half of his beer before coming up for air, then points accusingly at Bitty's half full bottle. "Finish that. I'm getting another. We're not talking about this sober."

"Oh, uh, I don't really have the money to—"

"Are you joking? It's on me."

Bitty catches himself before he smiles. He wishes he didn't need or want to drink to have this conversation, but it would honestly help. So he finishes his beer and lets Kent buy him another one from the excitable waiter and tries not to think about how it's late afternoon on a Thursday and he shouldn't be drinking because they're going to chirp him into next week if he comes home drunk.

Kent leans forward with his chin in his hand. He got Bitty the same beer he was drinking before, so black it's nearly opaque. It's not seasonable, but it's good.

"You're asking me for advice. About ..."

"Kind of."

"What, you like him?"

"... Kind of."

Kent snorts. "You made his ex take one of those weird one-hour flights to come talk to you about him, I'm gonna venture you don't mean that lukewarm kind of."

Bitty flushes. "Whatever!"

"Hey, no, I'm not passing judgement. I get it."

Bitty sinks back. He's sure that if anyone actually does get it, it would have to be Kent. "Okay."

"So, what do you actually want? Tips on how to woo him? 'Cause I've got some bad news for you, I'm not exactly qualified in that department anymore." Bitty accidentally laughs and Kent glares at him and says, "It's not like I'm not looking to be."

"I know, I know." Bitty drinks. "That wasn't a shot at you."

"Believe it or not, some of us have moved past the point in our lives where everything revolves around ... big Canadian boys."

Bitty laughs into his beer. "Oh my God."

"But you haven't," Kent says slowly. "I'm guessing."

"Um. Not exactly." Bitty sighs and shakes his head. “God. It sounds so stupid, saying it out loud. That I think he could ever like me. It’s _exhausting_ to think about, and I don’t know what I would even ... He graduates in two months. And then he’s off to the NHL. It’s not like we’re going to see each other or, like, _what,_ we’re going to secretly date?”

Kent’s watching him carefully. Bitty rubs his face. Kent says, “If you’ve spent any time around him, you should know he’s not as cool as he looks.”

Bitty laughs softly. “Yeah, I know.”

“And yet you’re still all worked up about it.”

“Yeah.” Bitty shrugs. “So what? It’s not like I can _help it_ , I don’t _want_ to be so ...” He gestures idly. “Into him.”

Kent smiles down at his drink. “But, it’s ... yeah. I feel you.”

Bitty’s never seen him smile like that before; definitely, definitely rueful. God, it was so rude of him to come here and try to ask Kent about how _he_ can best deal with Jack—what was he thinking? What if someone came to _him_ and asked, “Hey, you live with Jack Zimmermann, tell me how I can get in his pants,” Bitty would be offended and mortified. And he has never even dated Jack, while for all he knows, Kent and Jack had been in _love._ He decides, finally, to abort the mission.

He traces patterns in the condensation on his glass and looks at Kent, the lock of blond hair falling over his forehead, the way it curls behind his ears, the now-straight line of his nose that’s sure to get crooked by a fist or a stick or a puck someday. His heart thumps hard and he tries to tell it, _shh, shut up, you traitor_.

“Well,” Kent says slowly, looking up, meeting Bitty’s eyes. He raises his glass. “What better way to forget about a dude than going for beers with another one, right?”

Bitty sucks a sharp breath in. That—could only mean one thing, right? Shit. Shit shit shit _shit shit_ —

He raises his glass and taps it to Kent’s. “Exactly.”

Kent smirks at him. Or, smiles. It’s hard to tell.

 

 

A beer and a half after Bitty says _well, I’m sure you have some impressive hockey stories to regale me with_ , when his sides hurt from laughing and he’s had his sneaker pressed against Kent’s for exactly two minutes and counting, Kent looks over his shoulder and his eyes get wide.

He goes, “Oh, shit—shit, we’ve gotta—aw _fuck,_ he saw me,” and Bitty turns around and comes face to face with Jack Zimmermann, standing on the sidewalk on the other side of the bar’s patio, looking absolutely horrified.

“Bittle?”

It's the same sort of tone he used when he caught Bitty with the photos, but less mad and more terribly, terribly confused, with that same accusatory bite.

"Jack!" Bitty yelps. "Hi! What are you doing here?"

“Meeting with Georgia,” Jack says slowly, and Bitty watches his eyes flit to the table between him and Kent, covered in empty beer glasses that haven’t been taken away. “What are _you_ doing here?”

From behind him, Bitty hears Kent say, “Hey, Zimms,” and Jack flinches. Bitty’s overwhelmed with guilt, that he’s made Jack see Kent because of him, that he went behind his back to talk to him, that his foot is still touching Kent’s under the table and _oh my God what was he thinking?_

“Hi, Parse,” Jack says, and Bitty instantly thinks: _Kenny._ “What are _you_ doing here?”

Kent says, "Ab-so-lutely nothing," in this smug fucking tone, and when Bitty turns around he sees him smirking at Jack.

"You're not helping!" he cries, and turns back to Jack. "I know what this looks like—it is not in any way what you're thinking, I'm not—"

"He was asking about hockey stuff," Kent says lightly. "Obviously."

“Right.” Jack looks between them. “Hockey stuff.”

Bitty can’t breathe. He has no idea what to say, if there _is_ anything to say that could make this better. He knows it looks like a date. He has no idea if it’s _supposed_ to look like a date. Whatever it is, Jack wasn’t supposed to know about it, he’s sure of that much, and now that he does, he’s absolutely petrified. 

Jack saves him the trouble. He sighs out his nose, checks his phone and says, “I’m gonna be late.” He looks at Bitty, who shrinks away. “We’ll talk later.”

“Yes!” Bitty says, “Sure, yeah.”

“Okay.” Jack gives them one last wary look, both him and Kent. “Uh. Bye.” He takes off down the street and almost walks into traffic at the corner.

After a long pause, Bitty lets out the breath he was holding. “Oh my _God,_ what on earth were the odds of _that?”_

Kent laughs. “My fuckin’ luck, huh? I’m gonna get a strongly worded email or something.”

“Do you guys actually keep in touch?”

“Not really.” He looks at him for a long time, thumb moving along the edge of his coaster. “So, uh—it’s not in any way what he’s thinking, huh?”

“Um.” He has to be reading this wrong. There’s no way Kent’s inviting him to rectify that. “Well, what was I supposed to say?”

Kent makes an _I dunno_ noise. “Depends which is worse—‘I’m going way, way out of my way to dish about you behind your back,’ or, ‘I’m on a date with your ex.’”

Bitty holds his breath. Kent holds his gaze, his expression plain, inquisitive. In the most backhanded way, this is so sweet of him: giving Bitty a chance to shake this off, no strings attached. He’ll pay for their drinks and shake Bitty’s hand goodbye or, if they stay for another beer, give him a hug, and maybe they’ll talk on Twitter but that’ll be it, and Bitty can forget that he ever thought it was a good idea to chase down and wring secrets out of someone’s ex-boyfriend. Or, alternately, this could be a date. He could be on a date with a funny, sardonic blond guy who’s been in two magazine spreads that Bitty can think of, to say nothing of the ones he can’t, who’s lifted the Stanley Cup above his head, who’s had his foot up against Bitty’s for at least five minutes now. Bitty takes a deep breath.

“What if we went someplace for another beer?”

Kent raises his eyebrows and smiles. Uh, smirks. “You’re joking.”

“No.” Bitty closes his hands around his glass. “Unless you’d rather I be joking, in which case I am a _very_ convincing liar.”

“Shit.” Kent laughs, honest and surprised. “Alright, sure.” He cranes his neck looking for the server, who spots him. “Let’s get the fuck out here.”

 

 

They’re not walking close enough for their shoulders to touch by accident but it happens a few times anyways. Bitty isn’t drunk but he can feel it buzzing under his skin, thrumming in his hands, his face, or else he’s just excited. It’s after dark and it’s a little cold and he wishes he brought a sweater or a jacket, but it’s not like he can go back now. Well, he could. But he’s not going to.

“Ok, so,” Kent starts, “there’s that big park by the water. Wanna get a six pack and walk around or something? I can’t promise I can charm your way into another bar.”

“Yeah! Of course, that sounds—great, yeah.”

Kent chuckles. “Can’t believe you’re nineteen.”

Bitty bumps their shoulders together. “Oh, whatever! You’re, what, twenty-four?”

“Twenty-three. Twenty-four in July.”

“Well, I turn twenty in May, so there’s gonna be that little window of time where we’re almost the same age.”

“Yeah, right.”

“You’re younger than Jack.”

“Yep, a year.” If Kent’s made uncomfortable by the mention, it doesn’t show. “It’s funny—I grew really late? Like, when I was seventeen, eighteen, I was about your height. And Zimms was up here.” He raises his hand a bit above his head. “It was funny. I hated it. But I almost caught up.”

Bitty laughs. “I can’t imagine you being little.”

“Comparatively, I am.” Kent sticks his arms out, turns them over. “One of the smallest guys in the league, I think.”

“It’s nice,” Bitty says, and Kent looks at him. “My dad laughed when I told him I wanted to switch from figure skating to hockey, so. It’s nice that you—you’re one of the best players on the _planet_ right now, and you’re ... little.”

He’s surprised Kent doesn’t make anything of the compliment. He raises his eyebrows and says, “You did figure skating?”

“Oh! Yeah, since I was a kid. ‘S how I got into hockey. I mean, obviously they’re not the same, but if there’s anything I can do, it’s skate.”

“I’ve never seen you play,” Kent says, as if just realizing it. He grins. “Think you’re faster than me?”

“I think I could give you a run for your money.”

“I’m gonna hold you to that someday.”

“I _dare_ you.”

Kent laughs again and Bitty doesn’t know if it’s at him or with him, not that it matters. They get to an absurdly large liquor store and Bitty waits outside, plays with his phone, and feels like he’s fifteen years old again and waiting for someone to boot for him. The Haus group chat is blowing up.

_yoooo biiits can’t help but notice you’re not home yet_

_somethin you wanna tell us buddy boy_

_bitty if u come home tomorrow morning all rumpled n shit u have no idea how hard we are going to chirp u. yr not gonna survive. this is it 4 u. the end_

_guys leave him alone._

That last one was Jack. Jack, who knows he’s with Kent. Oh, Christ, this is awkward. He isn’t sure what to say, if anything, but he’s pretty sure silence would make it worse, and he’s _very_ sure Jack knew they were lying about ‘hockey stuff’—as if Bitty would have anything to ask a player like Kent.

He sends, _Guys PLEASE i’m not on a date, I swear to god_ , and that’s a lie, because he has no idea whether he’s on a date, but he’s getting a pretty good hunch that this might, in fact, be a date. Which is as terrifying as it is exciting, honestly.

_oooh breakin the radio silence!!! bits where ARE YOU_

_Boston, ok!! Just! It’s fine! I’ll be home later!_

_bitty we need pies i am jonesing right now. u left a haus full of hungry boys w/o provisions_

_I am NOT your collective MOTHER, make your own damn pies!_

_bro you do not want us to do that, i can tell you that right now_

_are you ok?_

Again, Jack. Shit.

_I am perfectly fine but thank you for asking. Nothing bad happening. Nothing untoward._

Oops. That was too far.

_UNTOWARD?? OK DEFS ON A DATE THEN_

_JACK are you protecting our baby boy WHAT DO YOU KNOW? I’M COMING UPSTAIRS_

_EVERYONE MEET IN JACK’S ROOM IN 2_

“Do you guys always do this?”

“Ack!”

Kent came up behind him. Bitty shoves his phone into his pocket and spins around, takes a step back. Kent has a six pack in a plastic bag swinging from one wrist and a smirk firmly in place. “Is Zimms looking out for you?”

“Wh—no, that was everybody, I mean—”

“You keep saying this isn’t a date. Are you sure he’s not your boyfriend?”

“Are you sure he’s not _yours?”_

“Point taken.” He nods down the street. “C’mon.”

 

 

The park in question stretches along the waterfront and boardwalk, with a few trees and a lot of grass and, during the day, joggers and dogs and the whole nine yards. But now it’s late, and save for a few couples walking around like them, it’s quiet. It’s still downtown, so the traffic is loud, but it’s nice. Kent wrenches a can out of the six pack and hands it to him, and he makes a quiet appreciative sound and takes it. Kent cracks his own and they’re quiet for a while, walking slowly across the grass, and Bitty worries they’ve ran out of things to say to each other. The fact that they’ve made it this far without a lull in conversation is mind-boggling, given who Kent is and who Bitty is, and he knew it was too good to be true. But it would have been easy for Kent to call it a night, and he didn’t, so Bitty figures it can’t be too bad.

He drinks and looks up at Kent, who’s looking off towards the lights downtown. He looks different without a hat. For someone whose sport is played entirely indoors, he looks like he has a tan. He has such a nice jaw and his _throat_ and his bright eyes and he’s—looking back at Bitty.

“Um.” Bitty lowers his can. He lives in a frat house, he can handle his liquor, but he’s had a few so he can’t be blamed for saying, “Does your team know you like boys?”

He doesn’t want to say _gay_ because he doesn’t know, not really, just like he doesn’t with Jack. And Kent laughs, nicely, so he must have said it okay. He scrubs a hand over his face and says, “Yeah, mostly. Maybe like a dozen of them, the guys I know really well, but it’s sort of an _open secret_ , if you know what I mean.”

“Wow,” Bitty breathes. “That’s ... kind of amazing, Kent.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“It _is_ a big deal, oh my God. I thought it would be more ... is everyone okay with it?”

“Eh, probably not, but they’d be fuckin’ stupid to say anything.”

“Really?”

“Well, yeah. Any guy goes to management and says, _hey, Kyle over there called me a faggot,_ he’s gonna get in shit. It’s like, you couldn’t be racist, either. No one really knows outside the team, but—I mean, there are rumours, but—guys are dicks about it on the ice, but what the fuck are they gonna do? I can take it.”

“Yikes.” Bitty absentmindedly yanks the pull tab off his beer. “That’s brave.”

“If you say so. I’m just glad no one’s written any articles yet.”

“How’d you come out? _Did_ you? Um, if you don’t mind me asking.”

He shrugs. “It’s ok. The guys would just like, see me with dudes when we went out drinking and stuff. One time I brought a guy I was seeing to a party, shit like that. I didn’t have a _meeting_ about it or anything.”

“Hm. That’s so ... normal.”

“I try.”

“Yeah.” Bitty smiles and bumps their arms again, and this time, Kent stays in closer. “Was it another player? Anyone I’d know?” Bitty teases.

“Couldn’t tell you.”

“Oh, come on.”

“And I’m _definitely_ not telling you who blew me in the bathroom of a bar last year after I beat his sorry ass 5–1.”

“Oh my _God,_ Kent, now you _have to!”_

“Nope. Taking it to the grave.”

“At least tell me what team he was on.”

“No dice.”

“You’re so mean.”

“You love it.”

For some reason, this comes as a surprise to Bitty—he does. He’s actually having a great time, somehow, just walking around and drinking and all of this. He can count the number of dates he’s had on one hand, but if this is one of them, it’s definitely one of the best. Kent’s surprisingly easy to be around. He doesn’t know what he expected, but it wasn’t this; no stunted conversation, no bravado, no over-the-top bro. He’s so _normal._ He’s kind of sweet.

“What about you?” Kent asks.

“Hm?”

“Does your team know?”

“Oh. Hm, funny—I guess they do? I told a couple of the boys and figured, okay, that’s it, news’ll get around. I didn’t wanna, like you said, make a big _hooplah_ about it.” Bitty laughs. “I certainly ain’t hidin’ it.”

“The figure skating?”

“Yeah, and the Beyoncé, and the baking.”

“Baking?”

“Of course. I love to bake. I make a lot of pies.” He looks up at Kent. “It’s ... so strange to think you didn’t know that,” he laughs. “Everyone knows that.”

“We’ve known each other a grand total of—” He checks his watch. “About four hours. It didn’t come up.”

“You’re too busy bragging about getting head from NHL stars to ask about my hobbies.”

“Hey, the people I could conceivably brag to about that are limited, I take ‘em where I can get ‘em.” 

“Some date you are,” Bitty says lightly, looking out over the water. “Talkin’ about other boys.”

He can see Kent look at him out of the corner of his eye. He finishes his beer and holds onto it, not sure what else to do.

It was a joke, but Kent says, “My bad,” after a moment. “Are you cold?”

“A bit.”

Kent sighs. “Alright, this is super cliché, so don’t bust my balls, but. Hold this.” He hands Bitty his beer and starts to take his flannel off despite Bitty’s quiet _no no it’s okay!_  

Bitty takes the shirt when Kent hands it to him, then takes his beer back.

"Um. Thanks." Bitty pulls the flannel on and it's still warm from Kent's body, impossibly soft like it's old and over-washed. It's red and black and a size or two too big for him; it was a bit big on Kent. They start walking again and Bitty finds a garbage can to put his beer can on; Kent hands him a new one at his inquisitive look. When he thinks Kent's looking the other way, he pulls the collar of the shirt to his nose and inhales. It's a scent that's somehow sassier than Jack would ever wear, bolder, more blatantly cologne. Showy, but in a way Bitty can't deny _works_.

He hears Kent snort with laughter. "I can't believe you just did that."

Bitty drops the fabric. "I thought you weren't—"

"Nice try."

"Oh my God." Bitty cracks his beer and tries to stifle a smile. "Please forget you saw that."

"Nope."

They're walking close again, arms brushing once in a while. Kent's t-shirt looks nice around his arms. Bitty feels like he's going insane. His thoughts flip-flop between I _shouldn't be doing this, I can't believe I'm doing this_ and _I'm so glad I'm doing this._

"So, to make up for my earlier rudeness: what are you into? Baking, you said. Obviously hockey."

"Mhmm. Baking. Food, in general. And ... I love music, dancing. Stuff like that, I don't know." He rubs his neck. "Run of the mill."

"Shit, no," Kent scoffs, "I can count on one hand the number of hockey bros I know who like to bake, and I think it's just you, so—I doubt you're the _run of_ anything." Now his arm's resting more obviously against Bitty's. Bitty's heart beats hard and he takes a sip of beer, really feeling it now. "What kind of music do you like?"

"Oh, just ... pop, R&B, hip hop. Anything you can move to, I guess, it's just so ..." He squirms his hands inside Kent's flannel. "It's physical. I like music you can feel, stuff with a beat."

"Same," Kent says, and Bitty's heart swells. "Did I tell you I met Drake once?"

"Get _out!"_

"Shit you not. He came to one of our games right after we won the cup, and he said he liked basketball more, but like—totally shook his hand. I thought I was gonna piss myself, oh my fuck."

"That's amazing."

"One of the best things that's ever happened to me."

"You like Drake?"

"Who doesn't like Drake?" Kent takes a swig of beer and brushes his hair back and Bitty watches all of it, aware, humming. "If you ever wanna go dancing or something, hit me up."

"You _dance?"_

"I like clubs." Kent shrugs. "You should see me when I get going."

"God." Bitty gets a glimpse of some weird future where he parties with Kent Parson, dances with him in a dark, sweaty club, and everything's Yoncé, hip hop, laughing, _fun_. All hips, hands on biceps, lips, shared taxis, cities around the continent. Christ. That’s something he never thought he'd have—someone who likes going out, understands the fun of partying without throwing everything away for it like the college kids he's seen puking on their lawn their lawn after kegsters. Kent's a professional athlete, but he still ... he understands what it's like to ... in any case, he can't imagine Jack clubbing with him. Not that that's anyone's fault. He can't see himself playing golf with Jack, either. 

They walk to the edge of the boardwalk and rest on the railing overlooking the bay; Bitty can feel Kent's arm warm pressed against his, still unspoken, politely docile.

Bitty says, "I'd love that," just as Kent says, as if reading his mind, "You really like him, huh?" and Bitty flounders.

"Uh—who, Jack?"

"Yeah."

"I don't know, it's ... maybe. God, who knows, with him, I don't ..."

"It's okay." Kent bends down and picks a rock out of the grass, weighs it in his hand. " _Trust_ me, I get it." He winds back and whips the rock into the water with a quiet grunt. "Ass like an oil painting. Slapshot like a fucking sniper rifle." He huffs. "We're all done for."

"I guess." Bitty watches the ripples in the bay where Kent's rock fell. "But. You saw something in him, too."

"Obviously," Kent says right away. "There's a lot to him. But also—" He drops his beer can on the ground and fishes for another from the pack. "—It's not like we're the same people anymore. We've got nothing in common. You've talked to me, and you _live_ with him. Can you imagine Zimms twerking in some Vegas club?" 

Bitty tries not to. It's awkward. "No."

"'Zactly. So, it doesn't matter. Not that I still want to, but I mean." He sighs angrily. "I'm fucking over it."

Bitty doesn't entirely believe him, but he doesn't entirely believe himself when he thinks, _don't check your phone right now, it doesn't matter what Jack thinks_ , because it doesn't, but at the same time, Jack is so awkwardly entwined in both their lives that it kind of does matter. He doesn't think Jack's so closely involved with Kent anymore, and vice versa, but still, he's their common denominator. 

And yet, here Bitty is, more 'on a date' with Kent Parson than he has ever been with anybody. He's wearing his shirt. He went into this thinking there was no way he would like Kent, not with what he'd heard, but—he's been wrong before. A lot. And, in a vacuum, this doesn't feel wrong: there’s a sweet, successful, ambitious boy, _man_ , who's watching at him with this look that, even if he's wrong about it, makes him feel like he's all there is. _Ugh._ He's been done since their first handful of tweets.

"I know what you mean," Bitty says slowly. It's charming, somehow, that Kent seems to need reassurance in this. Bitty expected _ESPN._  He's getting a jilted ex-lover. It's nice. It's human. "But. It doesn't matter."

Kent looks away and sighs, a real sigh, like he had something held in his chest. "I know. I didn't think ... again, with the ‘being over big Canadian boys.’ It doesn't fucking matter."

"I know."

"It's just—" Kent looks down like he needs something else to throw into the water. "After we won the cup, and I went to see him, it's like—we talked about that since we were kids, it's all I've ever wanted, and— _what_ , he couldn't even be happy for me? Couldn't put that aside for one fucking night? Shows how much I ever fucking meant to him, I guess." His face is scrunched up in anger. And then it's gone, replaced by shame and something softer. "It's ... I know it's not entirely his fault. But, Jesus."

Bitty clenches his hands. He remembers that one short conversation with Shitty about how Jack was right then, how awful he was to Kent. He knows neither of them are totally innocent, and Jack has so much he's dealing with, but the whole thing is just awful. He wishes more than anything that they were still friends, and he didn't have to hear any of this.

He says, "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault."

"I know, I'm just sorry it happened."

"I shouldn't be talking about it. I'm not trying to like,  _turn you_ on him, or whatever."

"I know." And, since he's kept up to Kent one-for-one with beer, and he’s much smaller, it’s not his fault that he lifts his hand and slips his fingers through Kent’s, except that it absolutely is. Kent stiffens and then, easily, curls his fingers around Bitty's. Kent is surprisingly patient. It's a nice contrast; he knows how to have fun, he's wild, but—God, is he ever sweet. He doesn't say anything, doesn't question Bitty, just touches the pads of his fingers to his knuckles and accepts it. His hands are big, callused and warm.  "C'mon." They keep walking. They head down the paved boardwalk, where the railing turns to a low rock wall above the bay. Bitty walks alongside for a moment before hopping up onto it; Kent keeps ahold of his hand, hooking fingers in his, and laughs.

"You're like a little kid," he says, "Jumping up on shit."

" _Kid_ , says the guy who got me into a bar, then bought me a _multitude_ of beer," Bitty quips, balancing on the rocks. "If anyone should be made fun of, I feel like it's you."

"Fair 'nuff," Kent laughs. "God, you've got an edge on you, fuck."

"House fulla jocks," Bitty says. "You gotta be on your toes, y'all are pretty brutal."

"Am I a jock?"

"Probably. You're—Kent, you're captain of an NHL hockey team, a–a Stanley Cup winning team, I don't think you can be anything _but_ a jock."

"A team in a city that couldn't give one flying fuck about hockey, okay, but, I get your point." He moves his fingers over Bitty's knuckles. "But jock's a state of mind. Chest-thumping, dick-swinging. You know what I mean."

"I guess," Bitty admits. The boys on the Samwell team, the ones he's close to, are and aren't jocks; there's Shitty, who always has a beer in his hand, but asks about everyone's preferred pronouns at every party they go to; there's Ransom and Holster, who talk about hooking up with girls as often they talk about hooking up with guys. There's Jack, who everyone thinks is fucking chicks in his room during parties when, in all likelihood, he's just too overwhelmed to be downstairs. It's confusing, and not very black and white. So, neither is Kent. Bitty thinks about that photo strip of him and Jack, the way teenaged Kent grabbed at Jack's jaw, kissed his cheek, and he almost wants to mention it, but it's not his place. It's not anyone's, really. So he tightens his fingers around his, instead. "You're not very jock-ish, no."

"Is this 'cause the hand-holding and shirt-giving got me brownie points? Because I can work with that."

Bitty laughs and shoves him with his shoulder. "Shut up. I'm trying to get a good first impression."

"Yeah? And how's that going?"

"Good, honestly," Bitty says before he thinks about it. "I didn't think it would, but—yeah. I'm having fun." Bitty looks him up and down, his soft-looking hair that's coming down from whatever product he keeps it back with, his indiscernibly-coloured light eyes, his rumpled t-shirt. "I didn't think you'd ... I thought this was all business."

"Yeah." Kent shrugs. "Maybe. Could've been, but I was okay with whatever. You're _stupid_ fuckin' cute, I just thought, why say no, right?"

Bitty's sure Kent can feel his pulse speed up through his his hand. The captain of the Las Vegas Aces thinks he's cute. "Because you were in New York," Bitty offers. "Because I live with Jack, because—do you even remember me? From when you came to that party we had, last year, with the ..."

Kent makes a tired sound Bitty isn't sure that he's supposed to hear. "Sort of," he admits. "I remember the cute little blond under Jack's arm."

"I wasn't under—"

"You were as _under_ as he'd let anyone get, I'm pretty fucking sure." Kent lets go of his hand and Bitty is instantly sure he's done something wrong, he shouldn't have asked that, shouldn't have brought up Jack, but Kent just runs a hand down his face and laughs. "Fuck, I don't know why I sound so bitter. I swear to fuck I'm not bitter."

Bitty sighs and, surprisingly, swears, and it's enough to make Kent look up. “Shit. I mean ... I guess this was about Jack, at first, but. Maybe I don't want to talk about him anymore, at all." They lock eyes and Bitty's almost insulted by how surprised Kent looks by this proposition. "Would that be okay?"

Kent snags his hand again and Bitty lets him, looking down about a foot at him from his place on the sea wall. Kent says, "Super okay," and moves his thumb against Bitty's. "We've got a beer left each, if you wanna keep walking."

"That sounds great."

"D'you know when the last bus to Samwell is, or ..."

"Um." Bitty checks his watch; it's in fifteen minutes. He doesn't have a ticket and they're nowhere near the bus station anymore. "I think I’m gonna miss it."

"I'll get you a cab," Kent offers. "I don't care."

" _Pfft._ Look at Mister Millionaire, throwing it around."

"Oh, so it's okay when I get you a bunch of fancy-ass beer, but I try to get you home safe and suddenly I'm Mister Millionaire?"

_I'm sure your hotel's near here_ floats into Bitty's mind and very quickly back out again. It's the alcohol talking and he knows it.

"Well—okay, thank you. We'll see."

"It's not like I'll let you walk the highway."

"I know."

He takes a swig of beer. He's wearing Kent's shirt. He's holding Kent's hand. The same Kent he met once, impersonally, at a frat party, whose photo you can see if you scroll back enough through Bitty's Twitter feed. They're in Boston, walking the sea wall, and holding hands. He should feel weirder about this, shouldn't he? He doesn't. Kent feels like any boy he'd run into at a grocery store, or someone he met through friends, except there's at least a thirty percent chance he's gotten a sloppy blow job from one of Bitty's favourite NHL players, and maybe he's a little snarkier.

"Is your hair really that colour?" Bitty asks, and instantly regrets it. Anxiety over the night's inevitable end starts to prod at him, but he keeps it at bay. He places his empty beer can on the wall behind him, sure a deposit-collector will pick it up, and accepts a new one when Kent offers it, then cracks his own. He stuffs the plastic bag into a garbage bin they pass.

"Yeah. Why?"

"It's just—really blond."

" _You're_ blond."

"Yeah, but I'm like, ginge blond. You're ... TV blond." Kent laughs; Bitty ignores him. "What about your eyes?"

"Do you actually think I'd wear colour contacts?"

"Well. _I've_ considered it."

"Seriously?"

"Yes. I mean, you think blond, you think blue eyes, and mine are so _dark_ , I just ... think it'd be better."

"Nah." Kent shakes his head. "I like dark eyes. Soulful, and stuff. They're strong. I don't know."

Bitty doesn't know if he's making it up, but he likes it. Whether it's genuine or forced, he's trying, and anyways, it feels genuine.

"Thank you." He feels a lull in conversation but it's okay, like it's soft and agreed upon, comfortable. He's too scared to hop off the sea wall because he doesn't know what's going to happen when he and Kent are face to face again. He's only distantly thinking of Jack. He drinks again.

"What kind of music do _you_ listen to?" he eventually asks, and Kent smiles.

"Anything," he says. "Like you said, stuff with a beat. Pretty much whatever, but. Good music."

"So you actually _would_ go clubbing with me."

"Yeah. Why not?"

"'Cause every hockey fan in North America knows your name," Bitty blurts, and then instantly thinks, _that was too 'fanboy,' I've shown my cards_. But, Kent laughs.

"As fucking if. It's a niche market, it's like—if you know, then you know, but otherwise—I'm sure the best _cross-stictcher_ in North America is known by all the cross-stitch fans, it's not—"

"They don't fill stadiums," Bitty says quickly, "They haven't met Drake, I don't know why you'd—"

"Hey." Kent squeezes his hand. "Whatever, right? It's not a big deal. C'mon. Let's talk about music." He takes a sip of beer. "I like new wave. Like, late eighties shit, Talking Heads, Brian Eno. You?"

Bitty's finally able to get past the lump in his throat. "Yeah. They're good."

"Yeah," Kent agrees. "Danceable, but interesting. The stuff they could do with synth, Christ. Really cool."

Bitty nods. They're quiet for a few more moments, Bitty still walking up on the sea wall, Kent reaching up to hold his hand. Kent starts humming, and for reasons unbeknownst to him, Bitty sings softly, _"Oh, you've got green eyes, oh, you've got blue eyes, oh, you've got grey eyes ..._ " and hears Kent laugh a little, not mean. _"And I've never—met—anyone—quite like you before."_

Kent moves his fingers against Bitty’s, then brushes his thumb against his wrist, against the heel of his palm, and Bitty shivers.

"I forget the name of that song," he admits.

"Temptation." Kent looks up at him. Bitty really doesn't know what colour his eyes are supposed to be, but he likes that they're fixed on him. "New Order."

"Right."

Bitty holds his breath. He stops walking. Kent says, "C'mere," and he hops off the wall and is suddenly in Kent's space, breathing him in, that scent that surrounded him from his flannel shirt, which Bitty is still wearing, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, and Kent's looking down at him and Bitty's heart is thundering and when he woke up this morning this is not what he thought he would be doing tonight, and then Kent kisses him.

He tips his head. His mouth is _so_ soft. His nose presses into Bitty's cheek and he catches his bottom lip between his and his chin scrapes with invisible blond stubble. He smells amazing. He doesn't have to stoop down. He touches Bitty's other arm, rubs his thumb against the inside of his forearm, and nips at Bitty's lip. Then moves back.

"Shit," he says, softly, and Bitty looks at him from inches away. He's never kissed someone who was also blond; his eyelashes are blond, fanned out on his cheeks. "This is a bad idea."

"I know." Bitty twists their fingers together, then runs his hand up Kent's arm, and his breath catches at the feel of bare skin under his fingers. He feels like he's someone else, watching this happen. "I ... don't really care, to be honest."

"Me neither," Kent says quickly, and presses his mouth to Bitty's again, dropping his hand to touch his jaw, cup his face in two hands, and pull him closer and kiss him, really _kiss_ him, hands scrubbing through his hair, mouth opening wider, Bitty's hands clutching at his arms. Kent is a really, really good kisser. Bitty tries to keep up. Their tongues touch and Bitty makes this little sound, eager, scared, and slips his hands down Kent's sides, fiddling with the hem of his shirt, wanting, unexpectedly, and just this side of _too drunk_. Kent surges closer and he goes for it, moving fingers against his skin, the muscles in his abdomen, the cut of his hipbones, and Bitty's breath hitches and stops, his over-active imagination supplying _hanging over him, sweating, fingers digging, breath coming short_ , and he wants it, but it's bad, but he still wants it.

"Fuck," Kent breathes, pinning his hips to Bitty's, pressing hands to his throat, shoulders, a little frantic, but who's keeping track? "I didn't want to say anything but _fuck_ , you're hot, should we—" 

Bitty shoves their mouths together, presses his hips forward, lets his thumbs smooth along the knife edges of his hipbones, stupid and desperate and unthinking in a way he's never let himself be, because he knows Kent won't care. They must be on the same page. Kent Parson just called him hot. Kent Parson's tongue is in his mouth, stroking his, hands easing his jaw wider, all spit and teeth and _Christ_.

Bitty pushes their hips together and feels Kent hard against the crux of his thigh and feels like he's on fire, dying, drowning, thinking _hotel, hotel, king bed, anywhere, fuck_. It's messy, adolescent rutting but he loves it, he's aching, stupid and making out in a park with someone whom this could deeply incriminate, if someone were to take photos, him with his hands all over some nineteen-year-old boy at a park in Boston, but he keeps shoving his hips forward, wanting, blatant, and he knows Kent won't judge him for it, based on how hard he's pressing back. He grabs Bitty’s ass and urges him closer and Bitty thinks he could come like this, awkward, sudden and accidental, with Kent's tongue against his, a hand tracing his throat, his Adam's apple, but he doesn't want to, not on a first date or _any_ date, preferably.

"Fuck," he gasps, "I can't—"

"Okay," Kent says right away, and eases up. "That's—yeah, okay."

He kisses Bitty again and again, lips raw, like he can't make himself stop. Bitty smooths his hands down his chest and they breathe the same air, trying to calm down, and he revels in the weight of Kent's hands still on his hips.

"We should ... someone's gonna see."

"Oh well."

"Not _oh well_ , this is your career we're talking about."

"Is not. Believe it or not, hooking up with boys doesn't make me worse at hockey. All available evidence says it makes me _better_." Kent nips his lips. "Unless Zimms does another magical appearing act, I couldn't give a fuck."

Oh God, Jack. Bitty's so mad at himself. He's the worst friend ever. The worst maybe-would-be crush ever. This has nothing to do with Jack, he tells himself, this is between him and Kent, but that's probably how everyone who's been with their friend's ex-lover justified it.

Kent kisses him again and he makes a low, needy noise in his throat and clutches at his shoulders, the muscles in his back under his thin t-shirt, now hot with his body heat. Bitty's eyes fall shut. He's pretty sure he could do this forever if Kent let him.

"Okay," Kent mumbles into his ear, "I know you're gonna say no, but I'd be an idiot if I didn't try, so—my hotel's a couple blocks from here. If you don't wanna cab home."

Bitty groans softly. It would be so easy to say yes. He knows he'd love it and he isn't so naive to think he'll ever get this chance again, but—he's very, very aware of how drunk he is. And for all intents and purposes, he just met Kent. And if he doesn't come home tonight, there'll be no explaining his way out of it to Jack or any of the other boys. If they find out he was with Kent, which they might have by now, that'll be embarrassing to Jack—his teammate and roommate hooking up with his former best friend and secret boyfriend, who he currently has bad blood with. _Ugh._

"I can't," he says, and it sounds like an apology. "I really, really, _really_ want to, but I can't."

Kent laughs and puts his arms around him, so easily, like it's nothing, and Bitty thunks his head on his shoulder. "It's cool, I get it."

"Did I mention that I really, really want to?"

"Yeah, but I could hear it again."

Bitty sighs and winds his arms around Kent's neck. "This is the worst 'right decision' I've ever made."

"Yeah, but don't sweat it. I'll be around."

He pulls back to look at him. "Ignoring the fact that you don't actually live anywhere near here— _really_?"

"Sure. If you want. You remember what I said about clubbing.”

Bitty says, "Wow," and Kent laughs. He kisses him again and Bitty thinks, _well, that was easy_. Kent steps back and Bitty instantly regrets his good decision, like he didn't realize that going home would mean they had to stop touching each other.

"C'mon, let's get you a cab. Your house full of boyfriends must be worried sick."

Bitty shoves him and laughs. "Excuse _you_."

  


 

He's dreamy and giddy the whole way back to Samwell. He didn't kiss Kent goodbye at the cab, but he got a very nice hug and it’s like he can still feel Kent’s arms around him, his face pressed into his shoulder. As sticky a situation as it could shape up to be, he still hopes Kent meant it about seeing him again. He wishes there was anyone he could brag to about this.

It's pretty late by the time he's walking up the steps into the Haus, not inexcusably late, but late enough that Jack might not be up. He can see the light of the TV flickering through the window, so someone's awake, and he braces himself for impact.

He opens the door as quietly as he can. He steps over the first floorboard that always creaks, but hits the other one and freezes.

Shitty, Ransom and Holster are all piled onto the couch. They hear him. Shitty spins around, takes one look at him and bellows, _“Bitty’s home!”_ and the others start cackling.

“Look at this cute, drunk little motherfucker, oh my God.”

“How was your _date_ , lover boy?”

“Didn’t think we’d see you tonight.”

Bitty sighs and tries to sound as convincing as possible. “For the least time, it wasn’t—”

He hears heavy footsteps coming down the stairs and he turns, and Jack’s there in sweatpants and a t-shirt, his eyebrows raised in surprise, looking not into Bitty’s eyes, but at his _shirt._ The too-big plaid flannel that Bitty absolutely forgot he was wearing.

Jack says, “Um.”

Bitty says, “Shit.”

Shitty says, “So. Kent Parson, huh?”

 


	3. vegas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack realized somewhere over Iowa that he was flying across the United States to cockblock his ex-boyfriend and someone he has a crush on, but Bitty had been asleep against his arm for an hour at that point and he couldn’t bring himself to regret anything.

 

Jack isn’t completely sure how he ends up in a Las Vegas club, but he doesn’t entirely regret it.

After Bitty got home that night there was a moratorium on saying anything that even sounded remotely like “Kent Parson” in the Haus, but then Bitty let slip that he was going to spend the weekend in Vegas, and somehow he asked Jack if he wanted to come and somehow Jack said yes, and then the rest of the boys found out and they hadn’t had a moment’s peace since.

It wasn’t even a short flight. Jack realized somewhere over Iowa that he was flying across the United States to cockblock his ex-boyfriend and someone he has a crush on, but Bitty had been asleep against his arm for an hour at that point and he couldn’t bring himself to regret anything. Then Kent picked them up at the airport and he regretted a little, but he didn’t seem unhappy to see him, and he didn’t kiss Bitty in front of him or anything, so things could have gone worse.

After a beer at Kent’s apartment, Kent took them to a club he said he liked, because apparently he promised Bitty he’d take him dancing, which Jack absolutely didn’t believe and was sure Kent was doing to make him look bad.

So now he’s sitting in a booth in an impossibly dark, hot club, nursing his first and only whiskey sour of the night, watching Kent and Bitty dance. Bitty chirped him for not dancing but didn’t try to force him into it at all, which was a relief and, in some petty place inside him, a disappointment. Because now Bitty is dancing with Kent, and they _know_ how to dance to stuff like this, loud, heavy hip hop and electronic music with a beat Jack can feel in his skull. Bitty hasn’t stopped smiling since they got there. But Bitty hardly ever stops smiling.

And Jack’s not mad, not really. He’s mad at himself, maybe, because he flew across the country to third wheel Bitty and Kent, because he still hasn’t told Bitty that he’s the first thing that he thinks about when he gets up in the morning most days, or that being even forty minutes away from him next year is going to hurt, and now Bitty’s gone on a date with Kent and is probably on his second one right now, and he’s going to make Jack go back to their hotel room alone while he stays at Kent’s, and, okay, maybe he does entirely regret this.

He lets himself admit: they look good dancing. He doesn’t know how they do it. They’re so close to each other, touching (but not kissing, Jack notes, aggressive), and Kent’s smiling that stupid crooked grin that Jack caught him practicing in the mirror once when they were seventeen, which he’s perfected over the years, which he never smiles in media shots because it looks too flirty but always smiles when he’s trying. It works. Jack’s mad that it ever worked on him and more mad that it’s working on Bitty. But _God._ He wonders if Kent and Bitty kissed on their date and decides that they must have, if he knows anything about Kent and, honestly, Bitty, too. He pictures that. He tries very, very hard to stop picturing that. 

Bitty comes and checks on him on his way to get new drinks, courtesy of Kent and sometimes Jack, and he’s had enough to touch Jack’s arm and really grin at him, and that’s good enough. Jack can just be here as his friend, who wants to make sure he’s okay. Bitty’s in a city on the other side of the continent, and Jack trusts Kent, mostly, but he just feels better being here; if he were at home, he’d just pace and wait for texts, and he reminds himself of this when he feels stupid for sitting alone.

After a bit, Bitty goes to get a drink again and Kent sits heavily next to Jack in the brief lull between tracks. Jack can smell his deodorant, or cologne. Kent says, “How’s my favourite wallflower?” and Jack glares at him. “What? You are.”

“Thanks.”

“Whatever.” Kent runs a hand through his hair to keep it back. The music starts up again. “You doing okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“I still can’t believe you came. I never thought I’d get you out here.”

Jack shrugs and tries to look normal. “Had to eventually.”

“You did not, but thanks for saying it.” Kent settles next to him, far enough that they aren’t touching. The booth is leather and Jack can see him grimace when it sticks to his tacky back; he’s just wearing a thin grey t-shirt, similar to Jack’s, in black. Probably more expensive. “But, if you try to tell me this isn’t about Eric—or, what, you call him Bittle?—Bittle, like. I’m not going to believe you.”

Jack shifts. He sips the last bit of his drink. He looks over his shoulder to where Bitty’s still waiting in line for the bar, probably too polite and letting people slip ahead of him.

“You’re hesitating,” Kent says.

“I’m _thinking.”_

“I know.” Kent sighs hard out his nose. "Alright, listen, I’ll just say it: I'm not gonna fight you for a _boy_ , Zimms. I didn't like fighting you for _you_ , and look how that turned out."

Jack goes quiet. He's glad Kent isn't ready to get up in arms about this, but that other thing ... Christ. Like a knife in the chest. It dulls the embarrassment of Kent knowing he likes Bitty, but not with anything good.

_"Ugh_. I'm sorry, okay?" Kent says, like he knows. Jack doesn't know how far back he's apologizing for, but it feels good.

"Yeah." Jack rubs his hands together. "Me too."

"Well, aren't we just moving on over here, wow."

Jack almost laughs.

"So. Itty Bitty over there." Kent jabs a finger towards the bar. "Don't be mad, okay?"

"I'll be whatever I want."

"Oh, grow up. You know he's nuts about you, right?" Jack shakes his head, surprised. Kent huffs. "You know why he asked to see me in the first place? It wasn't supposed to be a date. He was asking me for advice. About you."

"Oh."

"Yeah, _oh."_

That's ... something, then. But Jack can't shake seeing Bitty coming home all dopey and sweet and lovestruck and wearing Kent's shirt. That had been a date, and one Bitty obviously enjoyed.

"Bittle wouldn't just pretend to like you."

"No. You're right. He probably does. But if he knew _you_ were on the table, I think he would've acted differently." He takes a long sip of his drink. "I'm a close second. But, still runner-up."

"Oh."

"You've sure got an extensive vocabulary tonight."

"Well. This is weird." He looks at Bitty, still waiting at the bar, long legs in nice jeans, absurdly good posture. "Would you date him?"

"Mhmm. Well, I mean, I'd try. I don't see it working out, but I'd give it a shot." Kent's looking at him now, too. "Seems smart. Good to talk to. And he's not even my type, but _goddamn_."

"Yeah," Jack says, absentmindedly, too full of longing. Kent elbows him in the side.

"Little blond boys have always been more _your_ thing, huh, Zimms?"

Jack elbows him back. "Shut up."

"Two for two, that's a type."

"Well, you like big, dumb jocks."

"I take big _smart_ jocks where I can get 'em."

Jack looks at him and regrets it, because he's got this look that says, _I dare you to say something, I dare you to call me out_ , but Jack really, really doesn't want to. He knows Kent means him. He knows that Kent knows that he knows. Saying something would be a mistake. He’s always been afraid that Kent would still want him if he let him. And his heart is already beating way too fast. Talking about Bitty would normally terrify him but if the alternative is talking about himself and Kent, it feels safe. And there isn't much Kent doesn't already know about him.

"He's really funny," Jack says, looking back at Bitty. "I don't think he knows it."

"His Twitter's a riot. Talks about you a lot."

"Really?"

"Yeah, you and all those guys. It's funny."

"Mm." For all Jack brings it up, he's never read Bitty's Twitter beyond the tweets he's been shown by Bitty himself. He wasn't sure how to do it, and who knows, maybe it's personal. It always sounded like a diary to Jack.

Kent says, "I'd ask if _you'd_ actually date him, but I think I know the answer."

Jack rolls his eyes.

"You probably want to move in with him."

"We already live together."

"You know what I mean, smart-ass. You wanna take him on cute dates to Baskin Robbins. You want to bring him home for Christmas. You'd buy him a new car if he batted his lashes. You're _boned."_

Jack sighs. It would be so easy to deny it. He knows Kent doesn't really care, but maybe he kind of wants to brag—not about _having_ Bitty, because he doesn't, but about wanting to have someone, which he hasn't done in a long, long time. He wants to say, _look how okay I'm doing_ , so he says, "So what?" and watches Bitty brush his hair back as he waits for his drink. Kent laughs.

"Fuckin' knew it." Kent bumps their shoulders together. "Alright, you sap, here's what I'm gonna do." Under the table, he stretches his legs out. "I'm gonna go dance, and let you two do whatever. If you haven't made a move by the time I get back, I'm going for it."

Jack panics. "What if he follows you?"

"Then you better come dance." Kent slides out of the booth and snaps his fingers at him. " _Bonne chance_ , bud."

_"Kent."_

He's already gone. Jack watches him merge seamlessly into the crowd, his bright white sneakers glinting in the dark, and he will never know how he does it; Kent's drunk, yeah, but he'd do the same thing sober. He can talk to people, he fits in, and Jack's never been able to do the same thing in any way he remembers being present for. He could go to parties with Kent when they were teens, but Kent did most of the talking, and Jack was far from ‘okay’ then, so it doesn't count. But here: it's been thirty seconds and Kent's found someone to dance with.

Jack's gotten used to being sober and alone at parties, so he settles down and looks at his empty drink and decides not to get another one. He'll be okay. He has worse things to worry about than crowds, or better things, he can't tell, but anyways, it's Bitty. And he wants to be sober.

Bitty comes back to the booth with a short glass of something amber and slides up next to Jack, grinning.

"This is so amazing. Thank you for coming with me."

"No problem," Jack says to the tabletop. "I'm glad you're having fun."

"I am." Their legs touch under the table. Bitty's heels don't quite touch the floor and he swings his feet. "I kinda can't believe _you're_ here, though. I mean! It's great! But I was so sure you'd be fixin' to stay in the hotel all night."

Jack shakes his head. "I do that enough. Or, I will, anyways."

"Well, this is the best, and thank you for coming."

"Anytime," Jack says, and he kind of means it.

Bitty sighs happily and drinks, lets his knee bump into Jack's. Jack can see him looking around for Kent, and when he spots him, he points and giggles. He's dancing with a woman a little shorter than him, with long hair dark and a big smile. Kent's saying something into her ear. "Wait, is Kent into girls?"

"I think so."

Bitty looks up at him, head back against the booth, so close to being on Jack’s shoulder. "And what about you?"

"What about me?"

"Do you like girls?"

Jack considers this for a moment. He wags his hand back and forth. "I guess so. I've never liked any specific women, but, in theory, I like them." He pauses. He's 99% sure he knows the answer to this, but he asks, "Do you?"

Bitty laughs, which Jack expected. "I don't, no. I think women are wonderful, I just can’t—you know."

That's funny, because Jack feels the other way. He could, you know, but he doesn't think he could make it mean anything. He likes girls fine, but he's never looked at any girl when they're not looking back, like he does with Bitty. He thinks that maybe in another situation, he could date someone like Lardo, because she doesn't make him nervous, but he's never met anyone else like Lardo, and he doesn't think she would particularly want him, anyways. It's not something he's given much thought.

He still hasn't said anything, so Bitty says, "Who _do_ you like, then?" and it's the most blatantly Bitty has _ever_ flirted with him, and Jack hopes he's not that drunk because he wants him to mean it, hopes he's not misunderstanding him.

His palms get clammy. He remembers Kent's idle, competitive threat. He makes a quick decision, takes a deep breath and leans down next to Bitty.

"Left wingers I can never get to put their cellphones down."

Funnily enough, Bitty drops his phone in surprise. He squeaks, "What?"

"You," Jack clarifies, unhelpfully. "You're who I like."

"Are you—is this a joke?"

"No. Why do you think I'm here?"

Bitty looks ... more surprised than Jack expected. That's probably a bad thing. "I—I thought you liked Kent. Or else you hated him, so you wanted to, like—make sure nothing happened to me?"

Okay, they're not on the same page, then. "Not really."

"To which one?"

"Both." Jack rubs the back of his neck, not sure what else to do with his hands. "I just. I thought you might date Parse. Or already be dating Parse. And then you invited me here, and I thought ... maybe I could ... change your mind. With me, instead."

"Oh," Bitty breathes, "my God," and Jack recognizes the look as less shock and more awe. He gets a head rush.

"Is that bad?"

"No," Bitty says quickly, and puts his hand on Jack's arm. Then he looks at it, like he can't quite believe it's there. "No, no, it's good, it's—are you serious?"

"Still, yes."

"I've ... you know I like you, right? A lot? God, there has to be a better word for that ..."

"No." Jack doesn't know the last time he blinked. He wants to remember this. He feels on the crest of something very, very important, a giddy, childish wave of _he likes me he likes me he likes me_. "I thought you were just being nice."

"I thought _you_ were just being nice! Because I found out about your thing with Kent and you still didn't—I mean, we knew we both liked boys and you weren't, you know, so I thought you must not ..."

"I didn't think you'd want to. I don't know, I didn't want to mess it up."

"And now you're telling me in a club, in Las Vegas," Bitty teases.

"And you went on a date with Parse."

"I—oh." His face falls. "Jack, I'm still so, so sorry, I had no idea you'd ever have—and it was _so_ rude of me to—he's your _ex_ , even, I don't know what I was thinking! There's no excuse."

"It's okay," Jack says, and it sort of is, because whatever else happened, it's gotten to a point where they're here and finally talking about it. But, if he doesn't ask this now, he's going to wonder forever and it's going to destroy him, so he says, "Do you ... _like_ Parse?"

Bitty looks down. "I'm sorry."

Jack looks down too, barely suppressing a quiet _shit_ , and that's when he notices a pair of white Nikes on the other side of their table, and, attached to them, Kent, sucking on a fresh vodka soda. He blinks at Jack. "Is this a bad time?"

Bitty jumps at his voice. He looks at Jack, and then at Kent. "Uh. Not ... really?" He looks at Jack, tense. "Maybe we should all talk?"

Jack trusts Bitty more than he'd admit out loud—he knows Bitty's not going to make him and Kent fight for him, for God’s sake—but he knows he's also very, very nice, and the thought of talking out their situation sounds mortifying. He wonders how drunk he is, but he seems okay.

Kent says, "Okay," really slowly, and Bitty presses right up against Jack to make room for him to sit, closer than he needs to; Jack can smell his hair and tries not to, but then thinks, _this is okay, he likes me too, right?_ So he puts his arm over the back of the booth and Bitty falls right against it. Kent looks at them. "What's up?"

Bitty fidgets and Kent sips his drink and Jack tries not to move. 

"Ohhkay." Bitty breathes out. "Um, this is, just—this isn't really a long term solution to anything, 'cause I don't think this is the place to talk about that, and I mean, I don't know what y'all are thinkin' on that front anyways, and I'm not gonna make you sit here and spell it out in front of each other, but first of all, sorry, for all this, it's totally my fault."

"It's okay," Kent says, a second before Jack. "Whatever."

"Okay. Sure, good. Wait, are you mad? If you're both mad, we can just call it a night, do you ..."

Kent and Jack look at each other for a second. Kent says, "We're fine," and Jack says, "It's alright," and they go back to watching Bitty, who isn't looking at either of them.

"Alright, so, not mad," Bitty starts up again, "Good. Great, thank you, a-and I'm still very, very sorry, I don't know why y'all are being so nice about this, I've been pretty awful to both of you, I didn't mean any of it, I was just being stupid—"

"Bittle." Jack nudges the back of his head with his arm. "It's really fine."

"What's up?"

Bitty takes another big, deep breath to steady himself.

"Lemme know if I'm totally off-base here, alright, because like I said, this isn't a fix, and we can all just go home and leave this all alone, or work it out or whatever, but I was thinking—maybe, just like, for now, tonight, we—"

Jack and Kent watch in seemingly slow motion as he reaches out and puts his hands on both their knees; no, a little higher. Their thighs.

  


 

And he says, in a tiny voice, "I might have an idea?"

  


 

Jack looks up at Kent. Kent looks up at Jack. They both get it. Jack's heart is beating faster than it ever has on the ice or anywhere else in his entire life except maybe during panic attacks, and this feels like that but it isn't that, the same head rush and tight chest and shortness of breath but no dread, no fear, just an all-encompassing  _oh shit._

  


 

Jack says, "No."

Kent says, "Sure."

  


 

All three of them freeze. Kent winces.

"Oops." Bitty buries his face in his hands. "Oh my God, I'm so sorry, I'm so, _so_ sorry, please forget I ever said that, please don't get mad, I just thought—"

Jack hasn't stopped looking at Kent. He says, "I thought you'd say no," and Bitty stops dead. Kent's eyes widen.

"Uh. I briefly, briefly considered it," Kent says. "For like, a split second."

"Oh."

_"You_ said no."

"Because I thought you would."

"And now that I didn't?"

Bitty keeps looking between the two of them, like he's going to miss something if he doesn't. Jack knows his jaw is dropped a little. He can't decide if he expected this the whole time; not in any part of him he'd admit to having. He doesn't _hate_ Kent and he's gotten better at dealing with him and God, they were best friends once, they were more than that, but it's been years and he's not _great_ at dealing with him, and he doesn't know if he's. Well. He does know. He knew the second Bitty asked, which is so humiliating, but he knows that if he walks away from this now, he'll either regret it for the rest of his life or be right back here in three months. Sex has never been that important to him, but he's not uninterested. Or stupid. And they've been better around each other with Bitty here than they have in years.

"I ... could be persuaded to change my answer."

Kent raises his eyebrows. Bitty's face lights up like a lightbulb. He tightens his hand on Jack's thigh. "Really?"

Jack looks at Kent, who's giving him this look that makes his throat go dry. He remembers seeing it on a younger face, but it's the same one; Kent hasn't gotten any better at hiding his emotions after all these years and this one's pretty clear. "Sure," Jack manages.

_"Are_ you sure? Jack, I don't want to push you into anything, I just asked, okay, I'm not going to be upset if you don't—oh, it was stupid to ask, I didn't mean to."

Jack takes his arm off the back of the booth and remembers to look around, nervous, but no one seems to be noticing them. He puts his hand in his lap which means his arm is snug against Bitty's and he's so insanely warm. "I want to," he says carefully. "You're not making me do anything."

Kent clicks his tongue and winks at him. Jack adds, "Neither is he."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"Wow," Bitty breathes, and looks right up at him, and their faces are so, so close and it would be so easy to lean down and kiss him and Jack's chest aches with need, now that he knows this is something he can have. Eric Bittle. Bitty. In any way Bitty wants to let himself be had.

Kent clears his throat. "Okay, we'd better get out of here before you get yourself on Hockey Night in Canada for making out with an underaged boy in Vegas."

Bitty scrunches his face up. "Well, when you put it like that, anything sounds bad."

"I don't think they'd run that."

Kent starts to get out of the booth and Bitty follows, but Kent says, "Wait," and puts his hand up. "I want another drink. One sec." He looks at Jack. "Zimms, come with."

Jack rolls his eyes but doesn't say no, mostly because he knows if he's alone with Bitty he's going to touch him, or want to, and Kent wasn't entirely wrong about getting noticed. So he follows Kent through the crowd to the bar.

Kent waits for his turn and says, "Were you being serious?" under his breath.

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Why did _you_ say yes?"

"Why would anyone say _no?"_ Kent looks at him with that hunger again and it feels like getting punched in the chest. He looks back at the bar. "Are you just doing it 'cause he wants to?"

"Partly."

"So what's the other part?"

Jack looks over at Bitty, who's getting out of their booth. He catches Jack's eye and points somewhere, towards the back of the club, where Jack assumes the washrooms are. He's lost once he slips into the crowd, too short to be seen over almost any other men.

Jack says, "Me wanting to," so quietly that Kent almost doesn't hear. But he does. And he shakes his head.

"Holy shit," he laughs softly. "Oh my God, we're so fucked." The bartender comes up and he says, "Triple vodka soda, please."

Jack scoffs. "You're gonna kill yourself. Why don't you just get a shot?"

"I like the fizz. And a lime in it." He points to where the bartender is mixing it up. "And this is _three_ shots."

"That's gonna cost you twenty dollars."

"Zimms, I'm about to fuck you _and_ your new boyfriend. Forgive me if I'd like to be a little buzzed."

Jack just stops himself from punching him. His ears go red. “Fucking down it, then. We're going.”

Kent hooks a finger in one of Jack's belt loops. "Aren't you eager?"

Jack punches him in the arm.

  


 

When Kent and Jack go to the bar, Bitty heads for the washroom.

He ignores the two giant dudes peeing at the urinals and splashes water on his face and tries to breathe. He can't believe this is happening. He can't believe that he just, in a booze-haze and a fit of Jack-induced endorphins and hormones, asked Kent Parson and Jack Zimmermann to have sex with him and they said _yes_. He thinks, if he stops drinking now, he'll be okay in a half an hour. And Jack likes him. Oh my God, Jack liked him _the whole time_ , and now he knows. Now it's okay, and there's this weight off his chest that he never thought he'd get rid of. It doesn’t feel real. And they're going to leave this club and go where, Kent's apartment? Their hotel? Bitty tries to tell himself his hands aren't shaking.

He steadies his breathing and leaves the washroom and waiting across the dark hallway is—Jack. Who instantly says, "I'm sorry," and Bitty says, "What?"

Jack steps in closer and snags his hand, pulls him out of the way of the washroom. His voice is as hushed as the bass of the club will let it get and his hand is still loosely in Bitty's. "I didn't want our first kiss to be in front of Parse."

"Oh," Bitty whispers. "Yeah, okay."

He's embarrassed that Jack has to stoop down so far to reach him, so he pushes up on his toes, braces himself on his chest and tries to meet him halfway. He feels Jack's big hands on his back, gathering him in, and he kisses him, so warm and soft, a nip of teeth, the smell of aftershave or maybe his shampoo, and it feels achingly familiar despite it being the first time, like something fits, like their bodies go _oh, it's you_. Then Jack is moving back, brushing his nose along Bitty's. He looks down the hallway and moves his hands off him. "We can't ..."

"I know." Bitty's dizzy with disbelief and it feels like his chest is going to explode with adrenaline and excitement and fondness. He says, "I like you so much," and he swears he hears Nursey’s bratty little voice in his ear, _no chill, Bits._

Jack looks surprised. His hand comes up to Bitty's arm again like he's not thinking about it. "I ... me too."

"Really?"

"Yes, but listen, you're sure you want to do this?"

"Yeah," Bitty says right away, "I know it's really, really stupid, but, I just—we can wait, if you want, or just not do it, Jack, _please_ don't let me push you into this."

Jack chuckles. "You're not. It would be less embarrassing if you were, but. Thanks."

Bitty can hardly see him in the dark. He says, "You're really good to me," and Jack sputters and he wishes he could see if he's blushing.

Then Kent shows up at the end of the hallway.

"If you two are done jerking each other off down here, I'm done my drink and we definitely need a taxi."

"God, okay, we're coming."

"Pushy."

They follow Kent to coat check, where he fishes a ticket out of his wallet and gets a black jacket in return. He pulls it on as they go down the stairs, and as they're heading out the door, Jack grumbles, "Where do you even find an Armani windbreaker," and Kent throws over his shoulder, "It’s okay that you want to go shopping with me, but just ask, alright?"

  


 

It’s almost one in the morning, and they walk down the block to get coffee from a convenience store and Kent almost gives the guy a fifty dollar bill by mistake. Jack flags down a taxi and Kent tells the driver his address. He sits in the front and sings along to Frank Ocean on the radio, _Novacaaane, baaaby, I want you, fuck me good fuck me long fuck me numb_ , and the old man driving the taxi keeps looking at him. Bitty's fingers tap patterns on his own knee.

"You know he's bi, huh?" Kent says from the front.

"What?"

"Frank Ocean. Do you think he'd come to one of my games if I invited him?"

Jack says, "I have no idea who that is."

"He totally would," Bitty interrupts. "And then you'd invite me, too, or I would never forgive you. I would let that man sign my face."

"I'd let him sign my _dick."_

Jack and the taxi driver make disgruntled noises and Kent laughs and laughs.

  


 

Kent’s apartment is, unsurprisingly, a penthouse suite. It’s also weird to look at, because it has marble slab countertops and a lot of big windows and white paint and chrome, but he brought all his furniture from his last place and leftover stuff from his parents’ house, which is all mostly wooden and worn. It’s like someone told him he needed a high-end apartment, but he didn’t want to get rid of his old stuff. And it’s messy, even though he swears someone comes and cleans once a week. And he has a giant maine coon who seems to both dislike him and insist on following him around.

Now that they’re here and alone, Bitty’s hit with the reality that _this is happening_. He’s belatedly embarrassed that his first time is going to be with two people, but he trusts that Jack won’t make fun of him, or let Kent make fun of him, although he doubts that he would, either. Jack’s had his hand against the small of his back all the way up to Kent’s apartment and it’s beyond reassuring. He likes Kent, but he’s so glad he didn’t come here alone.

Kent starts brushing his teeth at the kitchen sink. Jack stares at him.

“What are you doing?”

“The light in the bathroom makes me dizzy when I’m drunk.”

Bitty laughs at him. Jack rolls his eyes.

They brush their teeth in Kent’s bathroom and okay, the light’s a little bright and there’s no way to dim it, but it’s not so bad. When they’re done Jack crowds him up against the sink and kisses him, harder than last time and hungrier with no one around to see them, his lips yielding under Jack’s, opening, then his tongue moving against his, eyes falling shut, bending back a bit with Jack’s height. He can hear Jack breathing, his own heartbeat in his ears, feel Jack’s fingers digging against his shoulder blades, and the reality of who this is and what this means is still so enormous.

“Shit,” Kent says from beyond the doorway. Bitty turns his head; Jack’s lips touch his cheek. Kent looks about as thrilled as he can get and still be somewhat polite about it. “Alright, so, we’re doing this, huh?”

Jack’s eyes go wide and Bitty doesn’t know what’s going to be easier, Jack going over there first, or him. Beyond the bathroom is Kent’s bedroom, with its low lights and an unnecessarily large bed and a thick white duvet, and a lot of other, metaphorical things. Things they’re about to do. Bitty looks at Jack from inside the circle of his arms and he doesn’t look scared, exactly, but awkward. Bitty’s never seen what Jack looks like when he’s overwhelmed, but maybe it’s this. He kisses him and says, “You okay?” even though Kent’s there, probably waiting, and Jack nods against him and kisses him again, and again, moving his hands up his back to his shoulders, his neck, his jaw, and then off.

Then Jack looks at Kent, who quickly looks away like he wasn’t watching.

He looks like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t, and him and Kent are just staring at each other, so Bitty says, “I don’t know how you’re supposed to start something like this,” and they both laugh quietly. 

“Fuck. Okay.” Kent rubs his throat. He comes closer and Jack lets his hand fall down Bitty’s arm to his wrist. Bitty’s heart is in his throat so he can’t _imagine_ how Jack feels, with his wide eyes and shallow breath. “You just go for it, I guess.”

Kent’s drunker than either Jack or Bitty, but his eyes are shining and focused now. In one smooth motion, he comes up to Jack, grabs onto his shirt to yank him down, and pushes their mouths together.

Bitty didn’t know what to expect—at worst, a panic attack, at best, who even knows—but it’s like a dam breaking. Jack smacks Kent’s hands off his shirt and grabs him by the face and crashes into him, and Kent’s hands flounder until they dig into Jack’s arms and pull him closer, and if it weren’t for the deep, needy sound Kent makes, it would seem violent. 

Jack's hands run through Kent's hair and Bitty doesn't feel jealous, exactly, but something like it, because they're so in sync and so obviously laden with history, like they've kissed like this a thousand times and it must be all they're thinking about—but Bitty has no idea. It's frantic and hard and Bitty tries to think of the sweet Jack who kissed him earlier kissing like this, the Jack that screamed at Kent behind a closed door, doing this now, making out with him so hard it looks like it hurts.

They break apart and try to catch their breath, Jack's vice grip on Kent's face, Kent's hands clutching his waist. Then Kent's eyes flick to Bitty and he jumps.

"Hey," he says quietly, and reaches out; Jack looks over his shoulder. "C'mere."

He goes, feeling tiny, insignificant, and Kent lets go of Jack, touches the back of his neck and _kisses_ him, right in front of Jack, so close his arm is touching Jack's, and it is the single most bizarre thing Bitty has ever experienced. Until Kent pulls back and says, "Missed you," and Bitty turns scarlet.

"Wait," comes Jack's voice from above them, "Have you already ..."

"No!" Bitty says quickly. "It was one date."

Kent chirps, "Could've," and Jack pinches him. _"Ow,_ asshole. Manners." He kisses Bitty again, letting Jack go, squirming up against him, and Bitty laughs and pushes his fingers up under the sleeve of his shirt, smoothing against the curve of his bicep. Just when Bitty's getting used to it, Kent stoops, puts an arm under his ass and lifts him into the air with a quiet _hup!_ and Bitty shrieks in surprise.

"God, you weigh like a hundred pounds, how do you _play?"_

"Very carefully," Jack chirps, and Bitty would smack him if he weren't clinging to Kent's shoulders, but he gets a _one-twenty-five thank you very much_ in there. Kent carries him the few steps to the bed with insulting ease and drops him on it, and the thick duvet flounces up around them as Kent follows on top of him. 

Kent's mouth is on his as he mumbles, "You're gonna feel so good you won't be able to stand it," and he doesn't know if it's loud enough for Jack to hear but it makes him shiver and pull at Kent's shirt. He's still a little more drunk than he wanted to be and he thinks, _where's Jack, I want him here_ , just as the bed dips as he sits on it.

Kent pushes up on his elbows over Bitty and looks at Jack, his hair mussed, lips red. "What do you wanna do, Zimms?"

Jack makes a strangled noise. He moves closer and Kent kisses him, and Bitty watches and feels guilty for watching at the same time; a glimpse of tongue, teeth, heads tipping until they find that place they can get deepest. Jack's fingers find Bitty's on the bed and Bitty says, breathless, "We're wearing too much," and Kent looks ridiculous laughing into a kiss.

"I like you," he says, and slides off the bed to stand. "You're a thinker."

Jack says, "You're so drunk," and Kent scowls at him.

"Whatever, captain bringdown. Take your clothes off."

Bitty's heart beats wildly. Kent takes his shirt off and Bitty _stares_ , wants to pinch himself, and twitches when he feels Jack's breath in his hair and his hands at the hem of his shirt.

"You're so jumpy," Jack whispers.

"Nerves." Bitty swallows. "Not, um, bad, though."

Jack kisses him, goes _mhmm_ , and Bitty doesn't think he'll ever, ever get used to this. He thinks he could kiss him forever, for as long as he'd let him, and just never stop. They do, when Jack lifts his shirt off, and again when Jack pulls his own off. He realizes that Jack and Kent kiss with startling similarity, the same motions, the same things they like, and he wonders exactly how old they were when they started kissing each other, for that to happen. Bitty runs his hands up Jack's bare chest and shudders against his mouth, the foreign feeling of skin on skin, this, already, the furthest he's gone with anyone. He isn't sure either of them knows it's his first time, and he's not about to say.

Jack eases him back and settles over him with one of his heavy thighs snug between his legs, pushing, and Bitty thinks _oh my God, don't come, don't come_. His story—that he will probably never be able to tell anyone, honestly—where he's in bed with two famous, gorgeous hockey players can't end with, "and then I came in two seconds, watched them fuck each other, then fell asleep." Not to say that he couldn't come twice if he really wanted to.

"Hey, hey, c'mon, jeans off." Bitty looks past Jack's shoulder to where Kent's watching them, smirking, in a pair of tight grey boxer briefs; Jack huffs. "We're not a bunch of teenagers. Well, mostly not."

"Ha ha," Bitty says, breathless. "Hilarious."

Jack gets Bitty's jeans off while Kent fumbles with his from behind, mouth pressed to the back of his shoulder, and it's funny. All of this is a little funny, he thinks, until Jack picks him up and sucks on his neck, and then _nothing_ is funny anymore. Unless you're Kent, who says, "I can't believe he's so short that you have to do that," sounding beyond amused, and Jack's hands are full but he sort of falls back into him and he hears Kent go _ow_.

He gets deposited on the bed again but this time Kent's there with him, kissing him hard, and Jack's between his legs but he sits back and runs his hands down Bitty's stomach, and before Bitty can register what's going on past Kent's insistent kisses, Jack slips his briefs off in one motion and he's naked in front of them and can hardly bring himself to be embarrassed, too lost in imagining what's going to happen to him if he's the crux of this and not Jack or Kent.

Jack touches him and he twists and cries out against Kent's mouth, and Kent looks down for a second and says something Bitty can't hear over the blood hammering in his ears, then goes back to kissing him, harder, messy, moving his hand over his chest. His hands aren't as big as Jack's but they're rougher. He can feel Jack's thighs under his, his fist moving on him, slow but tight, his other hand holding his hip, feeling him tremble. He wants to see Jack's face and see if he's looking at him, but he doesn't want to let go of Kent.

He feels Jack shift his weight but he can't see what he's doing, but then there's a wet tongue licking a stripe up the underside of his dick and he gasps so loudly that Kent starts laughing again.

"Have you never gotten blown before?" he says, too low for Jack to hear, but Bitty can't get any words out because Jack's sucking his dick, Jack _Zimmermann_ is sucking his dick, and he's going to break his fingers with how hard they're clenched in the sheets and all he wants to do is travel back in time to freshman year and tell the Bitty who Jack always yelled at _oh my fucking God, it gets better._

"I won't tell him," Kent says, grinning like a jackal. "Look, though," and he lifts himself up so Bitty can see past him to Jack, between his legs, and again it's all he can do not to come. "You look so fucking good, Zimms." Jack glares up at him, doesn't say anything and doesn't stop, even though Bitty almost wishes he would because it's too much and he's not going to make it, but he would also be okay if this never, ever ended.

Kent nips his jaw and presses a wet kiss under his ear. "I mean, you do too, Christ." Bitty doesn't know what to say to that and still can't make his brain stop short circuiting, but it's fine because Kent sits up and gets a _look_ again. "Wait. We can do better."

That makes Jack stop. He sits up and Bitty can hear him breathing and they look at each other for the first time in minutes and Bitty thinks his heart might explode.

"You get on the floor," Kent explains to Jack, "And he's in my lap, and—one sec."

He moves to the other side of the bed to rummage in a nightstand and Bitty and Jack are left just looking at each other in the wake of _so, blowing you, huh_ , and Jack looks so embarrassed and Bitty can't stop looking at the shape of his hard dick in his boxer briefs and he can't tell if his heart is racing because he's mortified or excited.

He says, "Hi," because he's not sure what else to do, and it makes Jack smile, so, a victory. He pets Bitty's leg and says, "Hi."

Bitty nudges his toes into Jack's hip and says, "You should take these off." 

Jack laughs. "Maybe."

Someday Bitty's going to tell him how unfair it is for him to be so unbearably charming and awkward at the same time.

"Definitely."

Kent rolls back over and says, "Yeah, definitely," and Jack doesn't even scowl at him this time. He's holding a bottle of lube and three condoms, which he tosses on the bed and Bitty tries not to freak out about. "Sit up," he tells Bitty, surprisingly un-pushy, and Bitty draws his legs in from where he's entwined with Jack. "Aaand you, floor."

"Who made you boss?"

"Experience."

Jack grudgingly gets up and Kent squirms up behind Bitty and showers kisses over the back of his neck and makes him laugh. He doesn't think he'd be so giggly if he hadn't been drinking, and maybe he's giggly when he's nervous, but it's nice and neither of them seem to mind. Kent moves them both to the side of the bed and pulls him into his lap. "I'm gonna finger you while he sucks you off, is that okay?"

Bitty laughs shakily. Jack's already on the floor in front of him. "I don't think I'll last long."

Kent kisses his neck again and says, "We'll be careful," and Bitty groans softly, as much from what that might mean as from Jack running his thumb over his slit.

"I can't believe we're doing this," Bitty breathes, as Jack nips the inside of his thigh and Kent drips lube over his fingers.

"It was your idea."

"I was young," Bitty gasps as Kent braces him over his thighs. "And naive."

"An hour ago?"

_"Yes_ , and why am I still the only one naked?"

"Dunno." Kent crooks his arm underneath Bitty and brushes against him. He fits his chin in the crook of his shoulder and looks down at Jack. "C'mon, you heard him."

Jack makes a quiet _feh_ noise but stands anyways, and when he pulls his boxers down and steps out of them Bitty swears everything gets soft and glowy and beautiful, and he wants to get his hands on him so, so bad but Jack gets back down on the floor and licks him and, okay, that's fine too.

"God." Kent breathes against the back of Bitty's shoulder, staring at Jack. "Aren't _you_ aging well."

Jack pulls off Bitty to say, "It's only been like, three years."

"It's been _four_ , and fuck your _only."_

Bitty says, "Be nice," and as if in response, Kent starts easing two fingers into him.

"Like this?" he teases. Bitty's speechless with the feel of it, someone inside him and sucking him at the same time, and he presses back against Kent's shoulders, his muscles tight. "You do this at home?" Kent asks, and Bitty nods and wonders if Jack sees. Kent laughs softly, pushes in deeper then back out, breath hot against his nape. "Good. God, you should fucking see yourself." Kent shifts his hips and Bitty feels him hard, pressed into his back. "I could fuck you like this. Do you want both of us?"

"N-not at the same—"

"No no no, fuck," Kent laughs. Jack does something with his tongue and Bitty's hand scratches for something to hold onto, finds Kent's thigh and holds on, like stone under his fingers. "Just, at all."

"I don't know," Bitty gasps. Kent crooks his fingers and goes faster and he feels his thighs start to tremble. "I—"

"Who do you want first?"

Bitty laughs. "Uh, who's smaller?"

It's a joke, but Jack stops sucking with a wet sound and they both say, "Him."

Bitty laughs harder. Kent gripes, "Oh, fuck you," and Jack sniggers. Kent works another finger into him and again, nothing's funny anymore, and Bitty lets his head fall back against Kent's shoulder, back arched, with this shivery gasp; he misses Jack looking up at him in awe, but Kent doesn't.

"Is that the spot, Bits?"

"Oh my God—"

"You like this?"

_"Kent—"_

"Are you close?"

_"Stop_ , I'm—"

"Yeah?"

"He said 'stop.'"

That was Jack. Bitty opens his eyes and Jack's sitting back, still on the floor, with his hand around Kent's calf. He's glaring. Bitty feels himself sweating and tries to catch his breath, clenching involuntarily around Kent's fingers still inside him. 

"Okay, okay, Zimms, sorry," Kent says softly, and kisses the back of Bitty's neck. He pulls out and Bitty shudders hard, tries to work up the courage to look at Jack again. "Whatever you want, Bits.”

Bitty looks down at Jack, who's flushed across his cheekbones to his ears. Kent breathes against his shoulder. Everything feels wobbly and slow, like he's still on the brink of coming, suspended, trying to catch up with the rest of the world.

He reaches towards Jack, who automatically grabs his fingers, and he says, "Jack first.” If he ever doubted that Jack liked him before this, he doesn't when he sees the glowing look on his face.

"Oh."

Jack stands and Bitty crawls out of Kent's lap (Kent lets him), and Jack kisses him slowly, tiredness in his jaw, lovely bitterness on his tongue, spit-soft lips. Jack pushes his hair back, puts his arms around him, and Bitty can almost stop shaking. He feels Jack's dick pressed against his stomach, wet, _big,_ not that Bitty has much of a frame of reference, and some weird part of him wants to ask permission before he touches it. He would if it were his ass. That’s the famous part of him.

He wraps his fingers around him and Jack jolts, accidentally bites down on his lip and instantly apologizes. The muscles in his stomach jump and he holds the back of Bitty’s neck, bumps their foreheads together, breathes the same air. Bitty holds onto his hip, jerks him off and revels in his shuddery breaths and soft sounds, tries to remember what he likes himself and how he’s supposed to—

“He’s gonna come,” Kent says idly from the bed. “He wouldn’t say anything, but.”

Bitty stops and Jack hisses, “Parse, _shut up.”_

“I’m _helping,_ you wanna fuck him or not?”

Bitty thunks his head against Jack’s chest. “Right.”

Kent flops onto his back on the bed, snatches a condom and flips it at Jack. “Go nuts.”

Bitty feels Jack smile against his forehead. “He’s sad,” he pretends to whisper.

“I’m not _sad_.”

“He’s sad,” Jack says, “Go over there.”

Bitty laughs. “Alright.” He kisses Jack’s throat once and goes to the bed and crawls over to Kent, who watches him with big eyes and reaches for him when he gets close enough. Bitty settles in his lap and rolls his hips against him and Kent’s jaw drops open.

“Shit,” he laughs. “Okay, maybe I’m sad.”

Bitty braces his hands against his wide chest and moves, eyes falling shut, Kent’s hands coming up to grab his ass, urging him on. He feels something on the backs of his legs and Jack kisses his spine, reaches down under him to snag fingers in Kent’s boxers. “Up.”

Kent snorts and lifts his ass; Jack pulls his briefs down off his legs. He swears, mutters something and starts grinding up into Bitty, who reaches back blindly for Jack and finds him, presses back into his chest. He feels Jack smell his hair and it makes his chest tight with—he’s scared to say ‘love,’ but something like it, anyways, something that makes him happy.

“Jesus Christ,” Kent groans. “If somebody doesn’t fuck somebody else right now I’m gonna die.”

Jack laughs, which is probably a good thing. Bitty thrums with excitement and maybe a little fear, but Kent looks so impossibly excited that it makes him feel better. And the cock sliding against his doesn’t hurt. And neither does Jack’s in the cleft of his ass.

“What do you want to do?”

Kent responds pretty quick, finally breathy. “We’re backwards.”

Jack’s voice is wary. “What?”

“You go here. You fuck Eric. I fuck you.” Kent laughs, arches up. “He can ride you, I’ll get where you are.”

Bitty feels the breath Jack sucks in behind him, the way he stiffens. Kent must see him, because he starts laughing again, and Bitty wonders if he’s always like this in bed or if it’s just because he’s drunk, or if it’s because there’s three of them, or because it’s Jack. He’s so chatty, so brazen, always laughing—it’s nice. He didn’t think Jack would _ever_ bottom but it’s a pleasant surprise if he does, something sweet, a relinquishing of control, a vulnerability in someone who's determined to make it look like he has none.

“Okay.” Bitty drops his head back against Jack’s shoulder, turns and presses his nose under his jaw. “Okay?”

“I don’t know.” Jack presses his thumbs into his hipbones and looks at Kent. “No, I fuck him, you—you can blow him.”

“Embarrassed, Zimms?”

“Fuck off.”

“You totally are.” Kent reaches past Bitty’s thighs and touches Jack’s, just with his fingertips. “We all do it. No _machismo_ here, alright?”

“I don’t ... not ... in front of Bittle.”

Bitty wants to laugh at the absurdity of that because he could never imagine thinking less of Jack for something like that, but he knows it’s not funny, not for Jack. He can see Kent staring past his shoulder, probably at Jack, if the smoulder in his eyes means anything. A little mean, a little sexy.

“Jack,” Bitty says quickly, and he wants to turn around, hold him, kiss away whatever look of uncertainty is probably on his face. He reaches back for him. “It’s fine, please, I’m sorry, whatever you want. I—I think it’s hot, honestly, but, _please_ , please don’t do anything you don’t, uh ...”

Jack’s breathing into his hair again. “Fuck. I’m ...”

_Out, done, leaving,_ Bitty thinks.

“... Sorry,” Jack says.

Kent looks like someone shot him. “Holy shit. A Zimmermann first. An apology.”

“I said sorry earlier,” Jack snaps, and Kent holds his hands up.

“I am so fucking done arguing. Whatever you wanna do, man, but let’s _go.”_ Kent looks at Bitty. “You think it’s hot, huh?” Bitty goes red and Jack laughs into his hair.

“So what if I do! _You_ obviously do, y’all are the ones _doing_ it, I just—” Jack runs his hand down his stomach, lower, and the end of his sentence is gone. Kent’s still rutting up against him, so when Jack starts jerking him off, his knuckles touch them both.

“Less talking,” Kent breathes, “More—this.”

They flip so Jack’s on his back and Bitty’s over his hips and Kent’s behind him, sucking a mark under his ear. Jack squawks when Kent rolls a condom on for him and shuts up when Bitty rolls forward and kisses him, his little arms braced on Jack’s chest, thighs hugging his sides. Kent’s the one to smooth lube over Jack’s dick; Jack can tell by the size of the hands, even though he’s staring at the ceiling. His back arches off the bed and Bitty thinks that maybe, if he tries hard enough, he’ll commit this to memory; Jack under him, flexing, tense with need.

“Take it easy,” Kent says into his ear, “Don’t hurt yourself.”

Bitty huffs, “I don’t need you coaching me on this,” and Kent says, “Yeah, you do.”

Bitty’s hands are shaking. He doesn’t know where they should be. He shifts his weight forward with his hands on Jack’s chest, which doesn’t seem to wind him at all, and tries to slowly ease down onto him. He wants to be closer to him and get his face in his hands, press shaky kisses to his lips, but he’s on his back and too far away. At least Kent’s room is dimly lit and that’s sort of romantic, and he can see Jack watching him, and Kent’s body is close at his back, hands running over his stomach, his thighs. Jack arches up again once he’s even an inch on and he breathes hard, holds his breath like he's stopping himself from doing something, and it's nice. Kent mumbles things against the back of his neck, and it’s hard but it’s not as bad as he thought it would be, or, okay, maybe it is, and then he’s _there_ and he can hardly breathe.

He gets a quiet, gasped, _“Bittle,”_ out of Jack, which might be the best thing that’s ever happened to him. It’s a lot. His heartbeat’s thundering so hard it hurts his head and he tries to lift himself, tries not to come, and warns Kent off touching him. He isn’t sure what he expected but Jack knows what he’s doing, knows how to roll his hips and keep an easy rhythm.

“You probably feel so fucking good, you were so tight,” Kent says against his back, and it takes Bitty a second to realize he’s talking to him. “Zimms? Yeah?”

Jack breathes out a hard punch of air, head back, the pale column of his throat arched in the dark.

“I don’t know how long I can do this,” Bitty says quickly, because he doesn’t know _how_ Jack knows, or if he does, or if it’s some fated puzzle piece of their bodies that he’s hitting his g-spot, but it means he won’t take long.

“That’s okay.” Kent smooths his hands up Jack’s flexing thighs. “I can be quick.”

Bitty can’t see him moving behind him. He bows over Jack and kisses him as best as he can, Jack’s shaking hands coming up to hold his arms, dig into his ribs, just _keep_ him. Bitty feels his muscles go tense off-time to how they’re rocking into each other and he knows it must be something Kent’s doing; he sits back and pushes up onto his hands but he can’t twist around to see. He’s sweating more than either of them and he knows in any other situation he’d get chirped for poor cardio. He wants to look Jack in the eye but it’s so, so much so he keeps his eyes on his mouth, his chest, his triceps, focuses on the hand wrapped a little too tight around his forearm, puts all his energy into not collapsing or being loud.

Kent gets up close behind him and presses his forehead against Bitty’s back. He moves, shifts around, and then—

“Oh, _fuck_.”

Jack’s eyes fly open and he just barely stops whatever sound he was going to make and replaces it with a shaky gasp. The bedsprings creak as Kent shifts his weight onto his knees.

“Lift your hips—yeah, like—oh my _God_ ,” Kent sobs, “Jesus Christ.”

Kent starts a rhythm faster than theirs and Bitty bounces with the force of it, gasping, biting back cries, his back bowing forward, weight on his shaking arms. He tries not to drown in the enormity of the knowledge that Jack is getting fucked, under him, that he’s feeling what _he’s_ feeling right now, with someone else, while he’s inside him; he can’t imagine what that must be like. Jack looks, in his way, _wrecked._ When he grabs Bitty’s arm too hard and he hisses, he rushes out apologies and fists his hands in the duvet instead.

Kent groans, “Do you know—how long I’ve wanted to do this, to—make a _lucky pierre_ joke? ‘Cause, you’re Québe— _ow!”_ Jack kicks him in the back and Kent laughs, breathless, and Bitty feels his hands under his thighs, holding Jack’s hips. “C’mon, that was good.”

Jack keeps bucking up into him and can’t keep his hands off him for long, giving his arms up to clutch at his thighs, his hips, and Bitty’s toes hurt from curling so hard and his throat’s dry from gasping.

Kent presses a wet kiss to his spine and asks, “You okay?” sounding far from okay himself. Bitty laughs shakily.

“I don’t know.”

“You should fucking feel him, oh my God.” He grinds his head into Bitty’s back and moans. “He—he’d let you, if you wanted, I fucking know he would, he’d love it.”

_”Kenny,”_ Jack says through his teeth, and Bitty’s head snaps up; that’s a first. “Shut _up_.”

Kent doesn’t even laugh. He runs his hand around Bitty’s hip and wraps fingers loose around the base of his dick, lets him fuck up into it. Bitty all but sobs. He can feel himself getting closer and closer but can’t get the words out, can’t make himself think or speak past the the tension inside him and Jack fucking him again and again and again.

“I can’t—just—” He can’t get a breath in before it happens. He comes hard, arching back, crying out, grasping for something to hold onto and finding Kent, who presses himself to his back and jerks him through it as it just keeps _going_ after being kept on the edge for so long.

He falls against Jack’s chest on his shaking arms and kisses him, all teeth and spit and desperation and Jack’s clammy hands in his hair. Kent hasn’t stopped and he can feel Jack’s breath coming short and his body moving with the force of getting fucked. 

Kent puts his hand on Bitty’s thigh and warns, “Stay, I’m close,” so Bitty braces himself above Jack and tries not to let his arms or thighs tremble. Kent’s right; it’s not long before his thrusts get frantic and he grabs Jack’s hips again. “Oh, _shit_ , Jack—” He dissolves into a cry and a strangled _fuckfuckfuck_ and comes buried inside him, his forehead against Bitty’s back, breathing like he just ran a marathon, like they all are. 

“Holy fucking shit, that’s unfair,” he groans, and Bitty manages a laugh. Kent pulls out and Jack winces; Jack pulls out and Bitty wants to cry. He rolls onto his back next next to Jack and Jack is instantly over him, kissing him, smoothing his hair out of his eyes, and he doesn’t chirp him for shaking hands or his quiet  _oh, Jack_ or curling into him or any of that.

Kent sits next to them and Jack sits up and kisses him. Kent looks as surprised by this as Bitty does. His eyes fall shut and he kisses back, running the backs of his knuckles lazily over his abs, Jack’s hand on his throat. He makes a contented noise and presses closer, lets his hand trail down to Jack's stomach to his obvious erection; Jack sighs into their kiss, but his hand clenches harder around his throat.

“Careful, careful,” Kent breathes, and he lets go. Their foreheads bump together and Kent runs his nose up Jack’s, once, blatantly affectionate, and Bitty watches Jack’s eyes flick down to him, self-conscious. “You can fuck me,” Kent offers, the quietest and most soft-edged he's been all night. “Or I can blow you, or, whatever.”

Bitty knows he’s not involved in this and is half grateful, still trembly and exhausted in the receding beat of pleasure. He doesn't think he'll ever forget what they look like together. Jack kisses Kent, takes his bottom lip between his teeth and says, “Whatever you ... blow me.”

Kent laughs softly. “Cool.”

Jack’s already near the edge of the bed so Kent slips to the floor and Jack sits, after a moment reaching back for Bitty, who curls up behind him. Bitty wonders if they always asked each other what they want to do, or if it’s somehow for his benefit. He runs his hands down Jack’s back, kisses his shoulders like Kent did to him.

From the floor, Kent says, “Ugh, you taste like condom.” There’s only so many times you can tell someone to shut up, so Jack just huffs and flicks him. Kent takes him into his mouth and he goes tense and Bitty thinks, for the thousandth time that night, _I can’t believe I’m here._ Kent isn’t gentle. Jack doesn’t seem to mind. Bitty leans forward to see Jack’s face and Jack laughs, embarrassed, and half-heartedly tries to shove him back.

“Lord, you look _so_ good,” Bitty mumbles into his shoulder, mostly hoping Jack doesn’t hear, but he closes his hand over his thigh again, so he probably does.

Bitty feels it when he starts to sweat. He wishes he could talk the way Kent does but he feels stupid just thinking about it, so he presses his mouth into his shoulder and watches the way Jack’s hand comes up to Kent’s head and thumbs his hair back unsteadily, watching.

“Fuck,” he groans, shoulders going tight. “I’m gonna come.”

Kent sucks harder, Jack’s breathing gets loud, and at the last moment he pulls back and jerks him off, and Jack comes into his open mouth, hand fisted in his hair. Bitty sees come on his tongue for a moment before he sucks him through the rest, and the _sounds_ Jack finally makes are heaven, and the tremor in his hands. Bitty breathes, “Christ, Jack,” against his skin and Jack laughs hoarsely and squeezes his leg.

Kent sits back and runs his hand over the back of his mouth, eyes dark. “Neat.” He’s out of breath and pretends like he isn’t, and Jack doesn’t even glare at him. He extends his hand and pulls him to his feet, and when he’s up he kisses him; Kent puts his arms around his neck, surges into him, but then it’s over, and Jack falls back to the bed.

The first thing he says is, “I’m so dehydrated,” and Bitty can’t stop laughing.

“You’re the worst.”

He stands on shaky legs and goes to Kent’s ensuite bathroom; he hears bedsprings creak, sheets rustle. He comes back with a glass of water and hands it to Jack, says, “Share,” and points at Kent, who’s lying in bed the other way.

“Water’s for quitters,” Kent mumbles. “I’m gonna _own_ this hangover.”

“Congratulations,” Jack says dryly, and hands him the water anyways, which he takes.

Bitty climbs into bed—literally _climbs_ , why is Kent’s bed so big?—and Jack moves towards Kent to accommodate him, wrapping an arm around him when he tucks into his side.

“Did I hurt you?” Jack asks quietly, nosing his hair.

“Not ... a lot.”

“Was that your first time?”

Bitty burrows into his shoulder. “Yes.”

“You should have said something.”

“I didn’t want you to know!”

On the other side of the bed, Kent says, “I knew,” and raises his hand.

“You told _him?”_

“No!”

“I could tell, c’mon. You should’ve seen his face when you started sucking him off, I thought he was gonna die.”

Bitty goes red. “We’re not talking about this.” He doesn’t want to make a big deal about it, it’s over, it’s done, he’s not a virgin anymore and Jack has his v-card, so, it’s all good. He wants to say that, but can’t. He wishes he was the one lying between them but he doesn’t say that, either, not when Jack’s got his arm around him and they’re naked and fitted together, heartbeats finally resting. The best he can do is say, “Kent, I want to kiss you goodnight but I’m too tired to get up, so, I owe you a kiss in the morning.”

Both of them laugh. Kent says, “I’ll hold you to that,” and, just to be a dick, Jack turns his head and kisses Bitty, sweet and slow. 

“Fuck you two,” Kent gripes, and Bitty has his eyes closed but he feels Jack’s arm move and he likes to think he’s not flipping Kent off, but who knows. “I’ll get the light.”

Kent peels himself out of bed and hits the switch by the door, and then the only light in the room is the faint lights of downtown coming in through his thin curtains. It looks like it’s almost getting bright out again.

“I thought rich people had clap lights,” Bitty yawns. Jack pulls the bed sheets up around them.

“Oh, you didn’t hear? My clap light repair guy is on vacation.” Kent gets back into bed, throws the sheets up. “Gotta turn ‘em off by hand like a peasant.”

“Mmm.” Bitty sighs and presses his mouth to Jack’s collarbone, lets his hand feather over his chest hair. “Jack, you ... gotta get clap lights for your new place.”

“I’m not getting clap lights.”

The last thing anyone says before they fall asleep is from Kent. “Zimms, you _gotta.”_

 

 

 

"I can't date guys with blue eyes anymore."

There's whispering, the sound of sheets moving. Bitty's eyes blink open and it's pitch black, pre-dawn, but he can just make out fingers stroking under Jack's ear, on the slope of his neck. "I miss you so fucking much sometimes."

He almost dozes off again. He's half asleep when he hears someone say, "I think I'm in love with him." He’s sure that he’s dreaming. He tucks himself against Jack's back and falls asleep.

 

 

 

Bitty’s a light sleeper. He wakes up when Jack whispers, “Hey. Your curtains suck.”

He opens his eyes. The sky is so bright and blue out the giant window in Kent’s bedroom that it wouldn’t surprise him if it were already one in the afternoon.

“If the room’s black I never wake up,” Kent whispers.

Bitty lifts his head and Jack notices. He glares at Kent. “You woke him up.”

_“You_ woke him up, curtain boy.”

“Morning,” Bitty says sleepily. He knows he looks like shit in the morning, and his hair is always sticking up, and he can feel a hangover pulsing back behind his eyes—but he looks at Jack, who he’s used to seeing very, very early in the morning, but not like this, naked under bright white sheets and still dozy, and it knocks the wind out of him. The fondness on his face is even rarer. Or maybe he just didn't notice it.

“Morning,” Jack says back, and kisses him softly, closed mouth, just a press of lips. Bitty can’t stop smiling. It’s like last night was some fever dream but this solidifies it and makes it real, that they’re all still here, that he can see Kent’s blond mop of hair somewhere over Jack’s shoulder.

“I feel like hot garbage,” Kent groans. “What did I even _do_ last night?”

Without missing a beat, Bitty says, “Jack came in your mouth,” and Jack manages an indignant _Bittle!_ “What? You did!”

After a moment, Kent says, “Yeah, okay, it's coming back to me."

 

 

Shockingly enough, Kent makes them breakfast. Even more shockingly, Bitty doesn’t insist on taking over. He doesn’t want to wear his nice clothes from last night until he’s showered, so Kent lends him an Aces t-shirt (to make Jack mad) and he sits with Jack at Kent’s breakfast bar and watches him fry eggs, wearing a pair of sweatpants that hang low on his hips. Jack keeps trying to get Kent’s cat to come sit with him, but she won’t. Bitty can feel this weird tension between Jack and Kent but he can’t remember why it’s there, besides, you know, everything. It’s not the worst it could be. Jack’s hand is on his thigh.

Kent breaks a yolk and says over his shoulder, "Do you think I've got the record for 'fucked the most members of the Samwell Men's Hockey Team' now, or ..."

_"Christ."_

"It's a valid question."

"I don't think you do," Bitty says. "There are tons of girls—boys? People?—who've three'd with Rans and Holster."

"Shit." Kent sounds genuinely disappointed. He turns around. "Wait, what are _they_ doing next weekend?"

Jack whips a balled-up napkin at him.

 


	4. new york

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kent passes Bitty his phone. There's one text from Jack: _whats this little ghost thing and where did those photos go_.

 

 

Life, somehow, goes on.

  


 

Jack signs with the Falconers, moves to Providence and gets an apartment with a master bedroom that has two closets. Bitty gets halfway through his junior year and spends less and less weekends on campus. Kent gets traded to the Rangers and Bitty starts seeing posters of him on sale at Wal-Mart.

  


 

Bitty keeps texting Kent, and vice versa; weekly congratulations or condolences on games, _oh my God_ responses to tweets, chirping, chatting. Friday and Saturday nights, after a few drinks on each of their parts, it gets a little different, heavier and more forward, and maybe there are photos. Bitty's afraid to tell Jack about it. When he finally works up the courage to say something, Jack grudgingly admits that him and Kent have been doing the same thing, albeit with less frequency.

  


 

It's mid-March and Bitty has spring break. Jack is set to leave on a five-game road trip.

  


 

They have a talk.

  


 

It goes well, and Jack isn't mad at all. It's really sweet. Bitty installs Snapchat on Jack's phone when he's in the shower and doesn't tell him about it, and they don't kiss goodbye at the airport, but there's a very nice hug.

  


 

Kent got a haircut, and he's only twenty-four, but he seems older.

  


 

He's waiting right where the gate comes out, and he hugs Bitty so hard it lifts him off the ground. Bitty's laugh is thrilled and loud and a little embarrassed, and he keeps his arms around Kent's neck a couple seconds longer than he's supposed to. Kent feels bigger than Bitty remembers, and he wonders how much weight and muscle he's managed to put on. His arms look _so_ good and his eyes are greenish—weren't they blue before?—and bright and focused.

"Hi," Bitty says, still a little star struck.

"Hey." Kent lets him go, but keeps a hand on his shoulder. "You got a bag?"

"Yeah, I don't know where it's coming out, though. On which carousel."

Kent's hand drops to his back. "We'll find it."

  


 

Kent has a small, flashy car Bitty doesn't know the name of. They get in and it smells overwhelmingly like Kent, but. "Did you get a new cologne?"

Kent cracks up. "You haven't seen me in a year and a half and you remember how I smell?"

"No! I _don't_ remember, at all, it's just—different? Maybe?"

"Coming on a little strong, don't you think?"

"Ugh, never mind!" Bitty grins out the window, flips his phone around in his hands.

After a moment, Kent says, "I did, though, for the record. You're weird."

  


 

Bitty likes Kent's apartment better than his last one. It's bright and sunny and there's no chrome, just woolly carpets and soft, heavy couches, a big TV and a PS4 and a giant balcony that faces east. The balcony has two patio chairs and a plastic table with a brass ashtray on it, and a little herb garden hanging over the railing.

"You grow basil," Bitty says.

"Yeah. It's good in everything."

_"You_. Grow _basil._ "

"I can cook!" Kent says, defensive. He drops Bitty's suitcase in the kitchen and follows him through the apartment to where he's almost pressing his nose to the sliding glass door, staring out to where the city sprawls under them. "I can cook up a fucking storm."

Bitty turns around. He didn't expect Kent to be so close behind him. "You gonna cook me dinner?"

"I could." Bitty watches his eyes flick from his to his mouth, to lower, and a thrill runs through him. "What would you want?"

They both know he's not talking about what he's talking about. It feels like there's energy crackling between them, finally alone, finally private. It seems like a lifetime ago that Bitty saw Kent in Vegas, and danced with him and got fingered by him and saw Jack come in his mouth. To think that _that_ is the same Kent who's here, and the same Kent he saw on TV last week and for the entire year before that, the league's leading scorer again this season, is kind of unreal. He's thought about it a lot the past year. His throat goes dry. "Anything."

Kent looks similarly pained. "Did you talk to ..."

"Yes."

Before he's halfway through that _yes_ , Kent says, "Thank fuck," and grabs his face and kisses him.

It's not exactly like before, because it's not as desperate. He tips his face up in his hands and it's sweet somehow, mouth moving slow over his, thumbs stroking his cheeks. Bitty smooths his hands over his chest and tries not to sink into him completely, loses himself a little and gets all dreamy and slow when Kent holds him back against the balcony door.

Kent moves back, still holding his face.

"Shit," he breathes, "I know this sounds like a line, but you have actually gotten _way_ better at that."

"I've been practicing."

"I bet." Kent's eyes get dark, like there's a thousand things he wants to ask, or do, or both. Bitty laughs gently and traces the lines of his body under his shirt.

"I was serious about dinner, though."

"Me too."

"I was serious about dinner in an actual, non-metaphorical, non-dick-sucking-sex-joke way."

"Oh." Kent pretends to be surprised and Bitty laughs again. "Well, you should've said something. We can throw some shit together."

  


 

It turns out, "throw some shit together" means "I went grocery shopping, specifically for a nice dinner." Because of Bitty's doubt in Kent's cooking skills, he's been forbade to help, and sits on the counter swinging his socked feet and watching Kent move around his big, bright kitchen as fennel and onions sizzle in a pan in the stove.

Kent says, "Taking you to a fancy restaurant would have been super ham-fisted. You get it, I'm rich."

"How do I know you're not just cheap?"

"I wouldn't fess up to it if I were cheap. Also, this is organic chicken." He points at his chopping board, where he's filleting a chicken breast. "Costs a shit ton."

"Well, now you're just complaining." Bitty smiles; Kent snorts. "Just kidding. I do appreciate it."

"How many Cups do I have to win before you respect me?"

"I'll let you know when you get there." Bitty ignores Kent's offended scoff and looks around. "God, what a kitchen. You'd _better_ cook in this beauty."

"Trust me, I do. It's not like I get take-out." He slaps his stomach. "This thing doesn't sculpt itself."

"Of course not," Bitty says, and it's sarcastic enough that Kent looks up at him.

"There's beer in the fridge if you want it. Help yourself."

Bitty hums and hops off the counter, goes behind Kent to get to the fridge. "Wow, this one?" He holds up a bomber of something dark with a fancy, illustrated label.

"Yeah, pick whatever, there's like four of 'em."

"You sure know the way to a boy's heart, pretentious craft beer 'n everything. Bottle opener?"

"Top drawer next to the fridge. And I figured you'd get tired of college boy Keystone at some point."

"I think I hit that point halfway through freshman year. Glasses?"

"What, we're not swigging from the bottle?"

"Please, I'd like to forget I live in a frat house for a couple days, thank you very much."

Kent reaches into the cupboard above his head and pulls two pint glasses out, and hands them to Bitty. When Bitty takes them, he kisses Kent on the cheek, which he didn't plan on doing until it was already happening. It's a little sappier than he was schooling himself to be. "Thanks."

"No problem. Pour me one, too."

"Duh." Bitty pours them each a glass and puts the mostly-empty bottle in the fridge, then hops back up on the counter. "I saw a guy at the Stop-n-Shop last week wearing one of your shirts. The new Rangers ones, 'PARSON' on the back and everything."

"Yeah, they'll do that."

"And now you're making me dinner. I'm sitting on your counter."

"You sure are."

"Kent Parson."

"Hi."

"It's kind of crazy."

"You've known me for like two years."

"And I've _seen_ you exactly ... four times, in two years, this bein' the fourth. Texting isn't the same."

"We've basically fucked already, you're nuts for being shy."

Bitty looks down at him. "Basically."

"Well. Fucked by proxy."

"Fucked once removed."

"Right."

Kent's watching him, very still. Bitty thinks about seeing him naked, feeling him move as he fucked Jack, remembering all the snarky, sexy, stupid shit he said and how he never stopped laughing. He grips the counter. "Right."

They keep looking at each other. Kent's frying pan spits. Bitty makes a grabby gesture with one of his hands and Kent comes over to him, gets between his knees and looks up at him, close enough that their noses brush.

"Sup."

"Hi."

"Hi, again."

Bitty crushes their mouths together. Kent pulls him right to the edge of the counter and keeps his hands on his hips, fingers dug into his jeans. He runs his tongue along his bottom lip, then along the velvety side of his own, and Bitty digs his hands into his hair. Stopping is even harder than it was last time and he's not sure why they even try; maybe the stove, or the time of day, or the fact that they should probably do something with Bitty's visit that involves leaving the apartment or, at least, the bedroom.

"I feel like you've got an agenda here," Kent says against his mouth, laughing. Bitty pushes his fringe back.

"And you have sent me _way_ too many dick pics to pretend that you _don't."_

Kent looks embarrassed for the first time. He pats Bitty's knee and goes back to the cutting board. "Whatever."

Bitty says, "It's okay. It's not like they were unsolicited," and while Kent coughs on his beer, he adds, "What're we actually doing tonight, though? Did you wanna go out?"

Kent recovers. "I thought we'd grab a few drinks, yeah. If you're down."

"Definitely. I'd like that." He tips his head. "Maybe, uh, less drinks than last time, though?"

Kent laughs and shakes his head. He carries the fillets of chicken to the pan and drops them in, and starts grabbing spices from a little cupboard near the stove. "I was nervous, alright?"

"Please, I don't think I've ever seen you nervous."

"If there's any occasion to be nervous in, it's fucking your ex-boyfriend in front of his _new_ boyfriend. Those twelve drinks were me being nervous."

"I think it went pretty well."

Kent gives him a look. "I'd hope so."

"It definitely did." Bitty lets his heels hit against the cupboards. "He and I weren't boyfriends, then, though."

"Are you boyfriends _now?"_ Kent asks, with a bit of sass on the word _boyfriends_ , mostly because it sounds stupid and not because of what it is. "He never gives me a straight answer."

Bitty hums. "Basically, yeah. Or—no, yeah, we are."

"Does anyone know?"

"Our friends, yeah. His parents, but not my parents. Most of my team, but not his team."

"Sounds complicated."

"A little." Bitty pauses. Intentional emphasis. "Obviously."

Kent laughs. "No shit, yeah." He pokes a piece of chicken with a fork. "So. You swear he knows you're here?"

"Yes, oh my God, give me some credit. You could call him right now if you want. Put me on speaker."

"I'm not gonna—doesn't he have a game tonight?"

"Mhmm. Tampa."

"Alright. Well, no, I'm not gonna call him. I figure you'd ... yeah." Kent side-eyes him. "Is he just _okay_ with it, or ...?"

"He almost suggested it, actually. We talked about it a bit, ages ago, and when he found out he wouldn't be around for my spring break, I sort of said something, and he jumped on it." Bitty grins. "Y'all've been texting too, from what I hear."

"At my absolute drunkest, yeah. ...Tell me he hasn't shown you my horrible texts."

"Nah, he's a good boy." Bitty takes a pointed sip of beer. "I'm, uh, not always as careful with them, though."

"Oh my God," Kent groans, "Fuck you, he probably thinks I'm—I don't even know."

"I think it depends on the text."

_"What?_ How often do you show him?"

"I don't know! I'm at his place most Saturdays!"

"Those ones are the _worst_ ones!"

Bitty laughs. "They're nice! Sometimes he helps me write the ones I send back."

"You and Zimms have been _co-sexting_ me and didn't think I should know."

"Like I said, it's nice."

"You're both the fucking worst."

"He either thinks it's funny or hot, honestly. I think that's why I'm here—I can't tell if he's just humouring me, or if it, y'know, _does_ something for him? I think it might."

"What, you and me?"

"Yeah, maybe. I thought maybe he feels guilty, 'cause he's away so much? But I don't think so, 'cause I can't imagine he'd let me do this out of obligation. He definitely didn't seem like he had any reservations."

Kent raises his eyebrows. _"Fascinating."_

"Yeah, right? Jack is ... an interesting boy. Or, 'man'? I don't know."

"Depends on who you talk to." Kent raises his glass. "To Zimms?"

Bitty laughs, reaches out and knocks their glasses together. "Zimms," he says, and it sounds so funny coming out of his mouth.

  


 

Kent picks a nice bar. Bitty says, "Stop impressing me."

  


 

Dinner was amazing and Kent's been perfectly pleasant, or as pleasant as he ever is, which isn't saying much, but it's so _fun._ Bitty's never been to New York. It's loud and bright and busy and he sticks to Kent's side as they move through the streets, not wanting to get lost. Kent seems to know where he's going.

The bar they go to is small and dark and lit with strings of warm lights around the walls. There's a patio, but it's raining, so they sit inside. It's not a sports pub, but there's a TV above the bar, and there's hockey on.

"Is that Jack's game? I told him I'd try to watch."

Kent squints. "It is, yeah."

They get a little table near the back. As they sit, Bitty asks, "Do you get noticed a lot, yet? When you're out?"

"Not really. I come here with the boys all the time, they're over it. There are a billion people in this city who're more famous than me."

"Last time you told me you didn't get noticed, you immediately got noticed."

"That was bad luck. And Boston."

"Well, we'll see." Bitty pulls his jacket off and drapes it over the back of his chair. Kent points at him.

"Wait, wait, when'd you put that on?"

Bitty's wearing a Falconers sweatshirt. He grins. "What, this?"

"Are you trying to spite me?"

"He's playing! It's good luck!" Bitty points at the TV. "They're up by two."

"Good for him." Kent picks up the drink menu. "I'm buying you a goddamn Rangers sweater tomorrow."

"Oh, Jack'll love that."

"I'll fuckin' buy him one too."

"Perfect."

"Can you imagine? 'When asked why he was seen wearing a New York Rangers sweatshirt last weekend, Zimmermann replied, Well, the guy who's also fucking my secret boyfriend plays for them, so I thought I'd be polite.'"

Bitty laughs louder than he means to. "Oh my _God_ , Kent."

"Let's see if he's into it."

"Don't you dare."

A server comes by and takes their orders; Bitty gets a Tom Collins and Kent gets a beer Bitty doesn't recognize.

"Oh," he says, once the server leaves, "was I supposed to get beer?"

"What?"

"If we're supposed to be, uh, _broing_ _down_ , maybe we should have split a pitcher instead of me getting a ... girly drink." He squeezes his eyes shut. "Okay, that sounded better in my head. Um. Do you know what I mean?"

"You're asking if you can be gay in front of me."

"Not in front of _you!_ In front of literally _everyone else_. I don't know, this is New York, and you said you've been here before, and if there's ... if people see you with ... I tried to dress down." He wags one of his sneaker-clad feet, even though Kent can't see.

"Shit, sorry." Kent puts everything together. "No, what the fuck ever. No one's gonna make a headline out of 'Kent Parson seen with cute, probably gay young bro,' you're not outing me."

Bitty sits back in his seat. "If there's anything I learned growing up in the south, it's that people talk."

"People have been talking since I was sixteen and started trying to sit in Zimms' lap at parties." Kent rolls his eyes. "They're gonna hit that nail on the head sometime, and if I get outed by going for some polite drinks at a nice-ass bar, it's better than a thousand other ways it could go down."

The server comes back with their drinks and Kent trails off. Bitty's eyes flick up to the screen over Kent's head as he takes his first sip—stronger than he thought—and he gasps. _"Oh!_ I think Jack just scored."

Kent turns around in his seat to look. "Nice. Shit, third period?"

"Two minutes left."

"They've got this."

Bitty claps his hands together. "Wonderful."

When Kent turns back around, he stretches his legs out under their table and their calves press together. Bitty wonders if he remembers when their feet were pressed together outside that sports bar in Boston last spring, long before they did anything they've done together now, and whether he meant it then, too. Kent says, "So, if you're wondering, no, I'm not out to these guys."

"I was wondering."

"Yeah. Not yet. Or, ever, who knows. I kind of don't believe _no one_ from Vegas told anybody else in the league, but if they did, everyone's being eerily quiet about it."

"They're respecting your privacy."

"Or waiting for me to fuck up."

"It can be both." Bitty takes a sip of his drink. "How'd you feel about getting traded?"

"Fine," Kent says, and shrugs. "They were a good bunch of guys, and I kind of got attached, but I never liked Vegas. If I'm gonna settle somewhere, I'd rather it be here."

"That makes sense. Do you ... so far, does it seem like they'd be okay with it? The new guys?"

Kent shrugs again. His fingers tap on the table. "Yeah, I guess. Who the fuck knows with this kind of thing, right? I want to get it over with."

Bitty's eyes widen. "Like, come _out_ out?"

"Maybe. Someone's gotta, and I've been playing long enough that I've got something to stand on." He runs his thumb through condensation on his glass. "I know why Zimms isn't, in his first year, but to be fair, he's also got _you,_ so it's different."

Bitty looks around. He isn't sure what to say, because Kent's right, and hearing out loud from someone else that Jack _has_ him is a little overwhelming, in a really good way. He looks up at the TV and tries to pick Jack out, but it's too far away.

"And I know it might kick up rumours again, with, y'know, _him,"_ Kent goes on, "but he wouldn't have to comment. I'll just look like the sad gay kid who pined for his best friend." Bitty opens his mouth and Kent cuts him off with, "I know what you're gonna say and we were _both_ the sad gay kid, alright?"

“Of course.”

  


  


Jack's game ends, Providence wins and Bitty can't stop smiling. He gets his phone out and Kent gives him a funny look. Bitty says, "I know he won't be free, I leave a voicemail." He's faintly embarrassed to be doing this in front of Kent, but he doesn't get up. It rings and Jack's terse voicemail message starts and finishes. "Hey babe," he says softly, ignoring Kent's amused snort. "I caught the last bit of your game, sorry I couldn't see it all. That last goal was beautiful. And congrats on first star, you deserved it. Or, I didn't see the whole game, but it looks like you did." He looks up; Kent's looking back. Bitty holds his gaze and says, "Parse says hi, by the way."

"Tell him he should fly out here and we'll congratulate him _right."_

"He's gonna be able to hear that. Anyways, Jack, congrats and be safe and I'll see you soon. Call whenever. Night."

Kent's turned around in his seat. "Ha. Look."

Jack's on the screen, shining under bright lights, a microphone in his face. He's still wet from his shower and flushed across his nose and smiling.

"Shit," Bitty says, "I wish the sound was on." And then, "What a beautiful, beautiful man."

"He looks so fuckin' goofy after a game."

"It's sweet. And so do you."

Kent turns back around, and again, his feet touch Bitty's. The table's small and in another life it would be easy to let the backs of their hands touch, too. Bitty's struck by the constant back-and-forth of today, between him and Jack and him and Kent and Kent and Jack. Jack's not here, but at the same time, he's never left the room. It's not bad. It's actually kind of exciting. Bitty's done his drink already and he feels restless, thrumming and alive.

"What did your friends say when you told them?" Kent asks, and clarifies, "About you and Zimms."

"Oh, God," Bitty laughs. He goes quiet when their server comes back, and he orders another drink. "We didn't so much tell them as they just _found out."_

"That must have been good."

"It was ... a harrowing experience. We didn't know anyone was home, and Ransom and Holster came down from the attic and saw us honest to God making out in the kitchen one time when Jack was visiting, and _lord,_ there was so much screaming."

"Mad?"

"More like the most pure and unfiltered joy I have seen any two humans express. Joy _for_ us, but mostly at our expense. They FaceTimed Shitty in nothing flat—you remember him, with the moustache—and I think they made us each shotgun a beer, on the spot. Things got messy. They sort of threw a party. Lardo made a banner."

"What did it say?"

"'Congrats on finally fucking each other.' It's still up in the living room, and it's bedazzled."

Kent bursts out laughing. "That's the best fucking thing I've ever heard."

"Not exactly romantic."

"Your first kiss was in a club, your first time was during a threesome, and when your friends found out they threw you a kegster."

_"Ugh."_

"Your roomies sound like a good bunch."

"They are. And they love _you_ , lord. They're a little touchy about it around Jack, but everyone's always like, Parse this, Parse that. Your little fanboys."

"Uh, those dudes are anything but _little_. You've got a pretty big team."

"Present company excluded," Bitty says dryly.

"Obviously."

Bitty sees a guy come up behind Kent, and he doesn't know how to say _look out_ until the guy's already slapping his hand down on Kent's shoulder.

"If it isn't Mister Too Good To Answer His Phone, I fuckin' knew you'd be here!" Two more guys come up behind him, and Bitty knows they're his teammates even if he doesn't recognize them, because they look like the highest order of jocks, and would Kent really have friends outside of hockey? (Do any of them, for that matter?)

Kent tries to smack one of them. "You scared the shit out of me, asshole."

All three of them notice Bitty at approximately the same time. The tallest one of the three, with unkempt black hair, says, "You his brother?"

Bitty goes, _"Ew!"_ without thinking, because _ew,_ and they all cackle.

"Too good," one of them says.

"Eric," Bitty says with a wave, and all three of them say some variation on "sup."

Kent explains, "He's Jack's buddy, from Boston."

"Jack Zimmermann?"

"How many Jacks do you actually know?"

"Smart ass."

The guys introduce themselves, real names, and Bitty only remembers that one is called Tom. All three of them are holding pints, and look a little drunker than either Kent or Bitty.

"You must be why this asshole hasn't texted us back," Tom says to Bitty, and ruffles Kent's hair. Kent elbows him in the abdomen.

"Yeah," another guy says, "We're going to this club and he's _supposed_ to come, and you can come if you want. It's gonna be sick."

Kent scoffs into his beer.

"Oh, what, you miss your shitty Vegas tourist traps? You're supposed to be _bonding_ with us, Parser, c'mon."

Kent looks at Bitty, unamused. Their legs are still all together under the table. Bitty shrugs and smiles. "Could be fun?"

One of the guys snaps his fingers and points at Bitty. "He's got the right idea. Chug those, my dudes, we're headin' out."

The guys go back to their table for their coats and Kent says, "You fucked up."

Bitty shrugs his coat on and sucks back the last of his drink. "We don't have to stay for long. You're supposed to be bonding with your new boys," he teases. "I'll be here for a couple days."

"You're just doing this so you can say you've partied with them."

"It can't hurt."

Kent pays their bill—Bitty tries to slip a tenner into the pocket of his coat and Kent shoves it right back into his—and they meet the other guys at the door.

A big guy with a beard says, "Hold up," and points at Bitty. "You take that fucking sweatshirt off before we get to the club or we're not going anywhere."

"Told you," Kent says.

"Fine, fine, I'll take it off when we get there." He pulls his jacket over it.

"Fuckin' right you are."

As they leave, one of the guys asks him, "How d'you know Zimmermann?"

Knowing he can't say _boyfriend_ , he says, "He's my best friend." It just comes out, and once it does, he realizes it isn't a lie, and that feels fucking amazing.

  


 

The club they go to sucks so bad that it's funny. Bitty presses into Kent's arm and says, "I hate you so much."

"You're the one who said yes."

"This is such a bro club. I'm looking at a tribal tattoo right now and it's your fault."

They check their coats and, with them, Bitty's Falconers sweatshirt. When he pulls it off his t-shirt underneath rides all the way up his chest, and when he frees himself, Kent's staring. He wonders how long they'll last here.

It's packed and they lean at the far end of the bar and try to stay out of the way. It's too loud for much talking and the boys venture off as a pack to pick up girls.

"Oh my God," Bitty says, leaning up into Kent, "That's a glow necklace. Someone is wearing a glow necklace, in a club, in 2016."

"What a time to be alive."

Kent fits his arm around Bitty's back in a way that could look accidental if he wanted it to. Bitty leans back into it and sips the vodka cran Kent got him.

"This is actually kind of nice," he says.

"It is fucking not."

"No, I mean, like—you're _Kent Parson_ , and you still get dragged to shitty clubs because that's what your friends want to do. You're not always ... living it up."

Kent laughs. "What did you expect, hookers and blow?"

"I didn't expect tribal tattoos and glow necklaces."

"Get used to it."

Bitty's phone buzzes in his pocket and he pulls it out.

Jack says, _thanks for the call. having fun?_

_His teammates dragged us to the worst club on the planet and they made me take my Falconers sweater off._

_you wore a falcs sweater in front of parse?_

_Yes?_

_you're amazing_

Kent, reading over Bitty's shoulder, scoffs. "What a jerk."

"You shush."

_"You're_ a jerk, at least make it sound like you're having fun."

"I am having fun." _It's great though,_ he types out. _Really really fun. How's Tampa?_

_hot as fuck and i hate it_

_You're such a baby in the heat._

_says eric 'its 10c and im freezing' bittle_

_Oh my god shut up_

_stop texting, bittle. you're on a date_

Bitty instinctively goes to type, "It's not a date." But isn't it? Could Jack _like_ that it's a date?

"Yeah, _Bittle,_ " Kent leers, "You're on a date."

"Fine!" He taps out _ugh ok fine ttyl_ and puts his phone away. "You're both mean."

"How does he still call you 'Bittle' when you're dating?"

"I don't know! It's weird to hear him say _Eric_. We were teammates before we were friends, or this. It's hard to switch over. He says Bitty most times."

"What d'you want me to call you? We've never been teammates."

Bitty looks up at him. They're startlingly close. "Um. Let's go with Eric. I call you Kent, I think."

"You think?"

"Depends who I'm talkin' to." He huffs and leans against the bar. "God, okay, this place hasn't gotten any better. Your teammates aren't even here."

"I think they thought we'd be trolling for chicks with them." Kent laughs at the thought. "Bad call."

"Yeah, no kidding. What do we do now?"

Bitty feels Kent's arm slip behind him, fingers curling discreetly around his hip. "We can go soon."

He tries and fails to focus on anything else. He shifts a little closer to Kent, nudges in against his side under his arm, close enough to feel his breath in his hair. It's _electric_ , probably because he knows it's such a bad idea.

"Someone's gonna see."

"No one's paying attention." Kent moves his fingers against Bitty's side, turns his head towards him and mumbles into his hair. "I thought you'd get taller."

"I stopped growing when I was seventeen." Bitty's palms sweat. He gets single-minded when he drinks, which is easy to ignore when Kent's at arm's length and harder when he's pressed right up against him. This would be easier to play off if they were dancing, but they’d be too visible. He thinks about every Haus party where he wished he could get this close to Jack, and every night since then when he _has_ , and closer. He slowly reaches down and runs his hand down Kent's leg. It's not really discreet. "You're driving me crazy."

Kent chuckles, low and quiet, and it zings through Bitty. "Good."

"We should really, really get out of here."

"Soon." He strokes his thumb back and forth along Bitty’s hip, the seam of his jeans. “You’re killing for it.”

“So are you,” Bitty hisses, and grabs his thigh in retaliation. He’s not as tall as Jack and it’s higher up than he meant it to be. He could turn and press himself against Kent’s chest, kiss him and fist his hands in his shirt like he wants to and like Kent’s been daring him to all day. He doesn’t know why he isn’t, but it feels like a stand-off. He tries to keep his breathing steady and hopes Kent doesn’t notice. “I’m gonna ... I’ll be right back.” He sets his drink on the bar and turns; Kent’s hand trails down his hip and off, and he sees his head turn to follow him down the line of the bar to the washrooms.

He’s drying his hands when Kent comes in.

“Oh my God, no,” he says right away, because Kent’s _looking_ at him, like— “That was not a _come hither_ thing, this is a bathroom and that’s disgusting, don’t you dare—”

There’s no one else in there, but it’s still a fucking club washroom. Kent pushes him back against the wall next to the hand dryer and he goes willingly, gets a sharp breath in before Kent kisses him, stupid and clumsy and endearing regardless of the situation, and Bitty thinks, _I'm better than this, I have to be better than this._ But Kent licks along his tongue and slots one of his thighs between his and, he thinks, _nope, I'm not, would you look at that._

He traces the strong lines of Kent's neck and into his hair, clutches his shoulders, tries to breathe right and tries really, really hard not to rut against him, and fails spectacularly on both counts. Kent groans and it's unabashedly needy and he almost wants to laugh. _Bad idea bad idea bad idea_ thumps around in his head but he ignores it, because it did that while he asked Jack and Kent to sleep with him, and that's still one of the best decisions he's ever made, and he's not _half_ as drunk tonight as he was then. He becomes dimly aware that he's basically riding Kent's thigh, that Kent's got both hands on his ass, dragging him against denim with his forearms flexing, possessive, teeth sunk into his lip.

And Tom opens the washroom door.

"Oh, what the _fuck!"_

"Whoops."

Kent lets Bitty go. Bitty goes red so fast he gets dizzy. Tom starts laughing hysterically.

"I fucking knew it, Parse, I _called_ it!"

"You did not."

Tom's already halfway out the door. He looks like a kid at Christmas. "Can I—is this some heavy shit, or—is it cool if I—I mean, I get if you don't want—"

Kent sighs. "Just be quiet about it."

He darts out the door. Kent snags Bitty's wrist and follows him, a couple steps to where the rest of the boys are at the close end of the bar, a bigger group than they went in with.

Tom bellows, "Boys, get your motherfucking phones out and call up whoever had 'Parser's too pretty to be straight' in the betting pool, 'cause we owe that fucker a hundred each!"

There's a chorus of raucous cheering, fists slamming on the bar and a few long _ooooohhhhhs!!!_ , loud even over the music.

Kent squints. "I don't know if I'm offended or flattered that the stakes were so high."

They all look at Kent and grin from ear to ear. Kent's still holding onto Bitty's wrist and Bitty's trying not to combust.

"Playin' for the other team, eh, Parse?"

"Fuckin' knew it."

"I _totally_ knew it."

Kent corrects, "Playing for whatever team'll have me, technically."

There's more cackling. Bitty wishes he was recording this for Jack.

"You greedy motherfucker."

One of them looks at Bitty. "This your boy, then?"

Bitty _ignites_ , mildly offended that he's not being addressed directly, but he doesn't know what else he expected. Kent says, "Uh, no. Yes?"

And, after everything else that's happened, Bitty just shuts his eyes and says, "Sure, why not."

They laugh. So does Kent. 

“Damn, Parser, you actually found a dude smaller than you.”

There’s a chorus of laughter; Kent goes _har har_. He says, "We're gonna get out of here," and they get a bunch of joyous back-slaps on their way past.

"I fucking bet you are. Ugh, boys, you shoulda seen it in there, I gotta wash my eyes out. Like some shit from  _Animal Planet_."

  


  


It's still drizzling as they walk back to Kent's apartment.

"I stand by all my previous statements where I've said bros were the worst. I have a rich history of believing this, ask anyone."

"You _are_ a bro. You surround yourself exclusively with bros."

"I accept the presence of a few key, atypical bros in my life, but I have _never_ liked bros."

Kent laughs. "Well, you’re a champ for going."

"I outed you."

"I outed myself, God. It doesn't matter, they're good guys. They'll get it."

Bitty looks at him out of the corner of his eye. He's turned his ball cap forwards in light of the rain, hunched into a grey spring jacket. Bitty's just drunk enough to want to link arms with him, but not drunk enough to actually do it; drunk enough to want him in a dumb, reckless, teenaged way, but not drunk enough that he can't wait. He’s still sort of hard, which is embarrassing. He keeps thinking about last year and what the three of them did, but the memories are already slipping through his fingers; the thought of making new ones is unbelievable. He wants to check his phone, but if Jack asks what he’s doing and he says he’s going back to Kent’s, he’s either going to get chirped or ... something. He’s not sure.

They make out in the elevator up to Kent’s apartment, Kent’s back against one of the mirrored walls, and Bitty feels unhinged again, pushy and needy at the same time. Kent gets his freezing hands under Bitty’s sweatshirt and Bitty shrieks. The hallway seems longer than it did before, and Bitty can still feel Kent’s cold phantom hands on his back as they go. It’s funny—the more he wants Kent, or the more they want each other, he assumes, the less they have to say. It’s different with Jack. There are things he’s _only_ heard Jack say in bed, against the back of his neck or other places he feels safe. He suddenly misses him, a sharp twinge in the centre of his chest.

He expects things to go slower than last time—which was sped up by booze and newness and Bitty’s unfounded but at the time very real fear that Jack and Kent would start beating each other up—but as soon as they’ve toed their shoes off and dropped their coats, he runs his hand down Kent’s arm, quiet, asking, and they’re _gone_ , pulling each other's shirts off, stumbling to Kent's bedroom. Bitty knocks Kent's hat off.

Kent's rougher than Jack, and Bitty doesn't know if it's because they don't know each other well, or just how he is; he digs his thumbs into Bitty's bare rib cage and practically lifts him up onto the bed, pins him with a thigh between his legs, _devours_ him. He's not opposed to it. It lets him be rough back. He scratches his nails into Kent's back and bucks up into him to test his weight, and Kent laughs and pushes back.

When Kent pulls his jeans down, Bitty grabs his wrist, stops him and gets his phone out of his pocket first. He throws it on the bed and Kent gives him and funny look and half a "Wh—" but then they're kissing again and Bitty's shoving Kent's jeans down.

Kent sucks a bruise under his collarbone and Bitty's sure it has something to do with Jack, a wordless chirp through time and space that Jack will see next week, _I've been where you go._ It could be that, or something nicer—something about sharing and some pretty metaphor that Bitty can't string together because Kent's pulling his briefs down.

"Didn't you wear these last time? Do you only have one pair of good boxers?"

"Why would you remember that?"

"Because I was getting a hot guy naked, why did you remember my cologne?"

"It was my first time!" He instantly regrets saying that. It was important to both of them, obviously, but saying it out loud feels awkward and decidedly un-fun. Kent gets his boxers off and Bitty grabs his ass and pulls him closer. "Neverm—come _on."_ It's not Jack's ass, but it's— _God._ Kent's dick slips against his and Kent gets his hand around both of them and groans; Bitty digs his hands into his thighs. 

Kent kisses his chest and goes to make his way lower, but Bitty grabs his shoulder and says, "No," low and out of breath. "Just—" He makes a motion with his hands. _"Hurry."_

Kent laughs, swears under his breath, comes back up and kisses him so hard their teeth hit, runs his fingers through his hair. He kisses under his jaw, bites at his Adam's apple. "Cool."

He goes to the night stand, comes back, rolls a condom on, all of it frantic and hurried. Bitty drags him in with his legs and kisses him, won't stop kissing him, and when Kent finally, _finally_ sinks inside him, he sobs. "Oh _God."_

"Fuck," Kent groans, and gets his hands behind Bitty's knees. He starts to lift. "Can you do this?"

"Knees to shoulders."

"Jesus Christ." Kent pushes his knees up to his chest and Bitty breathes hard and grabs at Kent's thighs, hands trembling. Kent bows over him, gets all the way inside him, holds his legs in his hands and _goes._

It's not like anything he's used to. Jack moves slowly but he’s painfully deliberate, forceful, the kind of fucking that knocks the air out of your lungs, but Kent doesn't let him get a breath in, period. It's fast but not jerky, practiced, like a movie, or rather, a very specific kind of movie. It's loud and messy, a lot of clutching, like there's any chance they're going to fall away from each other, like there's no way they can be close enough, even with Kent buried inside him, even with Bitty bent in half, Kent's lip slipping between his teeth. Being with Jack feels tantric. Being with Kent feels like running a marathon, and the heavy oak headboard keeps banging into the wall.

Bitty fumbles in the sheets for his phone and shoves it at Kent. "I snuck Snapchat onto Jack's phone."

Kent lights up. "You're joking."

"He's JLZ15."

Kent slows and Bitty tries to catch his breath. He touches himself lazily as he watches Kent swipe around on his phone for a moment, reared back.

"Got it." Kent holds the phone up. "Smile."

Bitty laughs, embarrassed, and tries to cover his face. After a second, Kent says, "Sent."

"Gimme."

Kent hands him his phone and bows over him again, kisses the sweaty back of his knee, and Bitty takes a photo, sends it. He gets one of where their bodies are joined, his cock lying hard on his stomach, Kent's abs, and sends that too. Kent starts fucking him again in earnest and Bitty drops his phone to grab at his shoulders and try to drag him deeper.

"Oh, _God,_ Kent—"

That sets him off, either because he's said something or that he said his name, and he starts talking like he did last time, stupid, mindless stuff that Bitty would never repeat, _you feel so fucking good, couldn't wait to get you back here, c’ mon, come for me,_ mumbling against the sweat on his jaw.

Bitty's embarrassed that it _does_ make him come. Jack's usually so quiet and Kent's so _into it_ and it's porny and weird and he can hardly breathe, half-choked half words, and it's fucking incredible. He digs his nails into Kent’s arm and comes with a sob, and Kent sits back to watch him, which is also one of the more embarrassing things that's ever happened to him. Kent bows back over, pushes his knees up again and keeps hammering into him, and Bitty clings to him and tries not to pass out or make him stop because it's so, so much. It’s not long before Kent’s coming too, shuddering hard, his hands grabbing at Bitty’s thighs hard enough to leave marks. He stills, and Bitty isn’t sure his heart has ever beat this fast.

Kent lets his legs go. His knees ache. He kisses him, lips soft and raw, sucking lazy, and pulls out, lies down next to him and shucks the condom. He pushes his sweaty hair back. “Shit.”

“Yeah.” Bitty’s legs are shaking. The sentimentalist in him—the boy who’s only slept with two people ever, one of which was Kent, just now—rolls over and kisses him again, for a long time. Their shoulders are crammed together, even though his bed is still huge. “Pass me my phone?”

It’s under Kent’s shoulder. He pulls it out and hands it over, smiling hugely, smug even though there’s a noticeable tremor in his hands. “What’d he say?”

Bitty hums and rests his head against Kent’s shoulder. He swipes. There’s one text from Jack.

_whats this little ghost thing and where did those photos go_

He shows Kent, who bursts out laughing. “D’you think he’s asking ‘cause he wants to see them again, or wants to make sure he _never_ sees them again?”

“Oh, God, I didn’t think of that. What if he’s at a function?”

Bitty taps out, _Snapchat. They show up for a couple seconds and then they’re gone forever._ Then, after, _also, hi._

The two of them are quiet for a moment, legs shifting in the sheets. Bitty puts his phone down and keeps his cheek pressed to Kent’s tacky shoulder.

“Christ,” Kent sighs, eventually. “That was ...” His trail-off is probably intentional.

“Good,” Bitty finishes. “Great.”

“Shit, yeah.” He shifts up on an elbow. “You, uh ... wanna finish the beer in the fridge?”

“Yes.” Bitty sits up. “Can we eat something? Do you have toast?”

“Probably.”

Kent stays naked and Bitty wears his t-shirt. They trade swigs out of the bottle they opened while they were making dinner, and Bitty comes up behind Kent as he waits in front of the toaster and puts his arms around him.

“S’freezing in here.”

“You’re the one who got the shirt.”

“You _live_ here, you could’ve picked any shirt.”

Kent turns around and puts his hands under the shirt anyways, and Bitty flinches. “Whatever, we’re sharing.” He puts his forehead against Bitty’s and runs his fingers along his knuckles, but doesn’t take the beer bottle away from him. “How’d you get so bendy? Getting your knees up so high.”

“I dunno. Just figure skating, maybe. There’s a lot of leg stuff.” He feels like he could explain this better sober, and not fucked-out. He still feels loopy. “But that was ages ago.”

“Does Zimms not ...”

“Make me bendy?”

“Yeah.”

“He does his fair share of ... bending me.” Bitty’s phone buzzes on the counter. “Speak of the devil. God, that weirds me out, I always think he can hear me.” It buzzes again. “Jeez, okay.”

Two texts from Jack:

_oh. wow._

_i miss you_

He smiles. Kent’s looking over his shoulder. “Barf.”

He types back, _Me or both of us?_

This time, Jack’s response comes pretty quickly. Bitty wonders where he is, this late at night—lying alone in an overstuffed hotel bed, or maybe packed into a booth at a crummy bar.

_mostly you but i guess also him_

“Fuckin’ rude,” Kent says. The toaster pops and he gets butter out of the fridge, a plate, a knife. “What an asshole. We give him prime jerk-off fodder, let him into our metaphorical bedroom, and I get a _guess also him.”_

“He’s a shy boy.” It’s a given that he misses Jack, so he types out, _Were the photos okay?_

And, sure, maybe he’s fishing for compliments. But Jack, being Jack, just says _yes_ , and Bitty rolls his eyes. But then Jack sends another one: _are you going to sleep?_

Bitty glances at Kent, still totally nude, buttering toast. He picks up the bomber and Bitty watches his throat move as he drinks.

_Probably not, honestly._

He sees the ellipses of Jack typing right away.

_feel free to send more_

  


 

They eat toast and finish the rest of the beer sitting naked in Kent’s bed, and when they’re done, they lie next to each other under the sheets and duvet, Kent’s arm over Bitty’s side. The bread plate and empty beer bottle balance precariously on top of Kent’s alarm clock. Bitty isn’t really tired, maybe a little sore, but he’s relaxed, at least, and used to Kent’s presence. He looks at him from inches away and traces the lines of his face with his thumb; across his eyebrows, cheekbones, over his temple and down his jaw, and Kent watches him intently, eyes a dusky green-grey in the lamplight. He’s surprisingly handsome. Bitty doesn’t know why that ‘surprisingly’ is there, but it is.

"I never got a chance to, um, admire, fully, last time. Which sounds stupid,” he explains in a whisper. “It was just all so ... fast."

"We were basically shaking out of our bones to fuck, I'm not surprised."

“We kind of did that this time, too.”

“It’s hard not to,” Kent says, which Bitty chooses to take as a compliment. He moves in and kisses him, and Kent makes a quiet noise in his throat, runs his hand up his side to his arm. “You know you kiss exactly like him, right?”

“I figured.” He’s been with Jack for a year, and you fall into patterns. He hasn’t been kissing anyone else, and kissing is like a fingerprint, where everyone does it differently. He kisses Kent again, and speaks with his lips touching his chin. “Technically, you and I kissed first.”

Kent smiles. More accurately: he reaffixes his permanent smirk. “That wasn’t _technically._ We got plastered and made out in a park.”

“Ugh,” Bitty laughs. “Okay, yeah. Why am I so bad with first everythings?”

“Look at it this way: you make guys stupid.”

Bitty blinks at him. “That’s ... weirdly sweet of you.”

Kent shrugs, which looks funny lying down. Bitty expects him to make a joke about wooing him or trying to get into his pants, something to make light of the sincerity, but he doesn’t. His ankles knock against Bitty’s under the blankets.

“Speaking of first times,” he says slowly, “What was it like with Zimms? After that.”

Bitty laughs, but not because it’s funny. It just comes out. “Um. Intense. It ... Are you sure you wanna hear about this?”

“How weird is it if I say yes?”

Bitty thinks about finding that photo booth strip of Jack and Kent, the thing that started all this, and he remembers how insanely curious he was to know more, and how curious he still _is_. He wants to know everything about Jack—the good and the bad, whether it’s about past relationships or cute anecdotes or family stuff or scary stuff or what brand of peanut butter he likes best, _anything_ —and this definitely falls into that. Maybe Kent feels the same way, and that doesn’t bug him as much as he thought it might.

“I’ll tell you if you tell me stuff,” Bitty wagers, and Kent smiles right away.

“Are we gossiping?”

“Yes. Jack couldn’t seriously have thought we wouldn’t.” Bitty burrows under the sheets a little more, tucks himself against Kent’s chest. “Anyways, it was ... amazing. The first time we were alone.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm. We couldn’t get time alone for a week, and he was nervous about the boys finding out, so we had to wait ‘til everyone was gone.”

“How’d you ...”

“God, you want _details_ details, huh?”

Kent says, “If you do,” and slips his hand lower, down Bitty’s back and around the jut of his hipbone, and, okay, this is something else now. Bitty laughs nervously.

“I probably don’t have a very good vocabulary for this. I don’t ... I never know what I'm doing.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

"Alright, good. Um. It was like ... I lied on my front, and he got behind me and pressed into me _all_ the way up my back, and it was so ... he’s so big, and I like getting to feel his weight. He always says he’s gonna crush me, but ... And he kept kissin' my neck and shoulders and stuff, saying all these _things_..."

Kent sounds breathless. "Like what?"

"Just that stuff that seems so hot and beautiful in the moment but it's actually so ridiculous. How good I felt, how lucky he is, how much he, uh, wanted things." He gets hot all over thinking about it. "It was so slow but he was _so_ deep, like, where you start to feel sort of sick." Kent laughs like he knows, and Bitty’s sure he does. "I squeezed his hand so hard I think I bone-bruised."

“Shit.” He feels Kent’s mouth on his forehead, at his hairline, but he doesn’t know if it’s a kiss or not. Kent pulls him a little closer. “Who came first?”

“Him, I think. He ... usually does.”

Kent laughs softly, definitely at Jack’s expense. “Does he ever pull out and come on you?”

Bitty can’t believe he’s embarrassed talking about this with someone who was just inside him. It feels stupid to have secrets or shame after that, but his ears go red anyways. “Sometimes. ‘Specially if we’ve been drinking.” He sneaks a glance up at Kent. “Did he used to?”

“All the time.” Kent pushes his thumb along the edge of his hipbone, back and forth. Bitty sees him start to say something, then stop. Bitty can think of about ten things he might have said, the top contender being, _but we were always drinking_. He doesn’t prod him.

“What about you?” he asks instead. “Tell me stories.”

Kent moves down the bed so they’re face to face and kisses Bitty gently, mouth open, breathing in. He draws his lower lip into his mouth and Bitty’s hand scrabbles at his sides. He gets enough space between them to say, “What kind of stories?” Bitty can feel the playful tension building up between them, promise of a second round in Kent's wandering hands and teasing lilt in his voice.

“Well, what do you remember?”

“A lot.”

“Give me good ones.”

Kent hums. He’s smiling, which is good. Bitty’ll know he’s pushed too far when he stops smiling; from what he’s heard, he knows that any good memory Kent has of Jack must come with at least a few bad ones. It won’t do either of them any good to dredge those up.

“Hm. Okay, what about ... We were on a roadie once, sitting right in the middle of the bus, and I jerked him off."

"What?"

"Yeah. He had a big winter jacket on his lap, and I got into his pants, and he had to act like everything was normal. One of the boys even started talking to him."

"Oh my God." Bitty imagines it, the way Jack would go tense, his pulse thundering, and how he’d grab Kent’s leg where no one could see and let his mouth fall open when he got close.

"It’s stupid,” Kent goes on, “but It was so fucking hot, I don't even know why. He came _so_ hard."

“Is that your thing? Public stuff?” he teases. He pokes Kent in the side. “After tonight in that club, I think maybe it is.”

Kent scoffs. “You don’t know that.”

“I think I do.” He can feel Kent hard against his thigh, and he moves closer. “Where else did you do it?”

Kent kisses him again, more insistent than before. “Everywhere, I don’t know. Bathrooms at parties. Bathrooms at rinks. Friends’ beds. The backseats of a billion cars. Any park that was dark enough.”

“Jesus.”

“Told you it was stupid.”

How breathless Kent still sounds makes Bitty bold. He smooths his hand down Kent’s abdomen, stops just short of his dick, and feels his breath stutter. He whispers, “So you actually would have gotten me off in that park? When we were in Boston?”

“Fuck, yeah.” Another kiss, deep, wet. “Speaking of which.” Kent doesn’t tease him like he’s teasing Kent, he just wraps his fingers around him. Bitty knew he was going to, but he gasps anyways. “What do you want?”

It’s hard to think when Kent starts working him in his fist, and most of him just wants to say _this, anything, whatever._ But, since Kent asked: “Go down on me?”

He knew Kent would laugh at him. “Sure.” He kisses his jaw, the pit of his throat, and moves down as Bitty rolls onto his back. He says, “If you’ve got your phone,” against Bitty’s ribs, and Bitty reaches blindly for it on the nightstand.

“Yep.”

“D’you always do this with him?” Kent asks, and looks up, poised over him. He obligingly stays still while Bitty gets to Snapchat and takes a photo. “Sending stuff.”

Bitty puts a sparkly heart emoji on the photo, where Kent’s waiting between his legs and looking up at him, not exactly smiling, flushed to his ears, and sends it to Jack. “Never. We’ve ...” He loses his train of thought when Kent puts his mouth on him. “We’ve, uh ... jerked off on Skype before, and the phone, but ... I didn’t think of Snapchat ‘til ... this.”

Kent hums in acknowledgement and Bitty drops his head back against the bed. “Which was stupid,” he breathes, or tries to. “So, so stupid.”

Kent works him easily into his mouth and doesn’t stop until his nose touches neat blond curls and Bitty’s shaking. He checks his phone; the arrow’s gone hollow, Jack’s seen it. He sends another, Kent with his dick in his throat, hands pressing his hips down. Kent’s different than Jack here, too, more brazen, more showy, or maybe that’s because he knows Jack’s technically watching. He’s good with his tongue. Bitty sends another photo, Kent licking him, fist around him, looking down through his pale eyelashes.

Kent stops and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Okay, I lied, put that fucking phone down and pay attention to me.”

Bitty laughs, but Kent starts sucking him again and it turns into a moan. “Each one’s only ten seconds,” he manages to stutter out, “We’ve gotta give him something to work with. That’s just polite.”

Kent stops. “Do you think he’s ...”

“I would be.” He reaches down and touches Kent’s hair. “Quit stopping.”

“Brat.” But Kent listens. He motions for the lube, lying forgotten on the other side of the bed, and Bitty passes it to him. He gets two fingers inside him and Bitty sobs and arches up. He crooks his fingers and knows exactly what he’s doing. He takes a second to remind Bitty, “Pictures.”

Bitty can hardly hold his phone. He remembers there’s video, too. He takes one, Kent sucking on him, arm crooked back to finger him. It picks up the sound, and it’s kind of obscene; he sends it anyways. He takes another video and makes sure he can hear his own strained breathing, held back moans.

He drops his phone to clutch at the pillow under his head and Kent is so obviously pleased by this. Bitty can’t lie still. He thinks he hears his phone vibrate, maybe. He scratches his nails through Kent’s hair and Kent groans around him and that’s it for him, Kent’s mouth, his fingers on his prostate, the thought of Jack watching them on his phone and touching himself, and it’s too much.

He tries to tell Kent but his voice cracks. “I’m— _fuck_ —” He starts to come and wishes someone else could film it, because he sure fucking can’t, he couldn’t tell anyone his own name. Kent pulls off and works him through it. Bitty hears him laugh, and it has this edge of disbelief.

“Christ,” he says. Bitty opens his eyes. Kent has come on his lips, his throat, the back of his hand, and Bitty can’t stop staring. “Send him this.”

He unclenches his fingers from the sheets, gets his phone and takes a photo where Kent’s looking right into the camera. He types out _Sorry I missed it_ and hopes that doesn’t ruin anything for Jack. Sent.

He flops down onto the bed and covers his face with his arm. “Oh my God.” He feels Kent get up.

“You are _so_ fucking loud when you come. I bet Zimms loves that.”

“He might have mentioned it.”

“It’s great.”

Bitty checks his phone, and he was right: there’s a text from Jack. He’s a little scared to look, but he does.

_i want to see you_

He laughs. “Ugh, this boy. Only Jack Zimmermann could be a sap about sexting.”

Kent’s in the ensuite bathroom. “He texted you?”

“Yeah. He, uh ... says he wants to see me.”

When Kent comes back to bed, he’s cold and smells like soap. He tucks his face into the crook of Bitty’s neck, no shame, speaking of being a sap. He’s still mostly hard. “We can do that.”

“You’re not too tired?”

“Is anyone ever too tired to come?” Kent slips his phone from his hands. "Here, pose."

"Oh my God, stop." Kent takes a photo anyways, Bitty covering his face, laughing.

"What does he like seeing you do? Let's do that."

"I don't know! Give it back." Bitty reaches for his phone and Kent takes another photo.

"C'mon, he wants to see his boy, let's give him a show. Do you ever jerk off in front of him?"

"Not ... often."

"You don't have any toys?"

"Lord, no. I couldn't bear the thought of anyone finding them."

"What are the odds of that? You're missing out."

"I live in a house full of boys who ransacked my room last November because they thought I was holding out extra Halloween candy."

"Please tell me Jack was a part of that."

"I think he might have had a hand in orchestrating the attack."

Kent laughs. "Do you blow him?"

_"Yes,_ God." Bitty gives up and flops back down, an arm across his chest. Kent gets up on his knees and backs up, gets more of Bitty in the shot. But Bitty sees his thumbs move. "Wait, what are you typing?"

"Nothing."

"Kent! Don't say anything weird!"

"He'll know it's me, you're in it." Kent grins. "Sent. That hickey looks great."

"What did you say?"

"Just asked if he was jealous."

Bitty groans. "You're such a bitch." He sits up and Kent kneels over him. He threads a hand through Bitty's hair and his dick bumps against his throat. "You actually get off on bugging him, don't you?"

"Kind of." Kent doesn't look half as embarrassed as he should. He holds up Bitty's phone and raises his eyebrows. "Hm?"

Bitty's more embarrassed than actually reluctant, and then embarrassed by his lack of reluctance, and it just cycles back and around; he loves the thought of Jack wanting to see him like this, but oh my _God_. He grabs the backs of Kent's thighs anyways, scoots down, and takes him in his mouth.

Kent says, _"Yes,"_ and it's so giddy that Bitty has to stop to laugh. Kent tugs on his hair. "Jerk, c'mon."

Bitty keeps sucking and sees him hold the phone to the side to get another photo, and again, he taps something out after. He moves his hips but Bitty can handle it, glad he knows how to do this, at least; if this had happened last year, he'd be all nerves.

He's pretty sure Kent's taking a video and completely sure that if he is, it's going to pick up his own stupid, sexy mumbling. He's surprised Kent doesn't address Jack directly, just to piss him off. He doesn't think he'll ever completely understand Kent, which is okay.

"Fuck, you're good at this," Kent groans, thumbing his hair back. "Fucking unfair."

Bitty doesn’t think he’s actually good at it, but that doesn’t matter. Maybe he is. Kent sounds like he’s doing alright. 

“I’m—” Kent’s voice cracks; Bitty sniggers, doesn’t stop. “Telling him how fucking lucky he is. Look up.”

Bitty looks up. Kent has his phone in front of his face. He takes a photo. “Shit.” Bitty runs his hands up his thighs and grabs his ass. _”Shit.”_ He stops to get a breath in and Kent asks, “Have you fucked him yet?”

“Nope.”

“Ugh, what the _fuck_. I’m—look up.” Bitty grins. Kent takes a photo. “I’m telling him he’s fucking stupid.”

Bitty laughs again. “Are you taking a video?”

“I am now.”

He slowly licks up the underside of Kent’s dick and smiles, works his fist, then looks right into the camera and says, “Hi babe,” and Kent sputters and laughs.

“You’re _savage_. Sent. _Fuck_ —” Bitty takes him back into his mouth and Kent drops his phone, which narrowly misses Bitty’s shoulder. He grabs the back of his neck and urges him on, a little too pushy, not that it matters. “Fuck, can I—are you good to go again?”

It’s weird, because he doesn’t think he’s ever heard Kent ask for anything. But he glances up and Kent looks like he wants to wreck him, and he can’t imagine saying no. “Yeah.”

Kent grabs him under the arms, pulls him to his knees like he weighs nothing at all and crushes their mouths together. His face feels so hot. “How do you want it?”

Again, he couldn’t care less, he wants anything, whatever Kent’ll give him, but he knows Kent asks because he wants to hear him say it, so he takes his face in his hands and says, “With Jack, we can never ... he’s too tall to do anything kneeling, we don’t line up, so ...”

“Al _right_.” Kent pretty much glows. “Turn around and grab the headboard.”

Bitty feels awkward listening to him, but he does, laughing the whole time. Kent fumbles around for another condom, lube, and grabs Bitty around the waist and kisses his spine, his shoulders, sweet and dumb and grateful. Bitty shivers. Kent puts a hand on his lower back and lines up, and Bitty drops his head between his shoulders as he eases inside him; it’s easier than last time but it’s still overwhelming, still makes him hold his breath and go tense all over. Kent leans forward, presses his chest to his back and puts his hands right next to Bitty’s on the headboard. He starts to move and swear into his hair and it’s so fucking intense, scary for reasons Bitty can’t pinpoint—maybe because the bravado of earlier is gone and it’s just the two of them, Bitty’s phone lost somewhere in the sheets, just Kent breathing and Bitty pushing back on him, as close as they can get. Kent going _you’re so good, I’m almost there, come on,_ all of which seems marginally less stupid than it did an hour ago. His hands hurt from how hard he’s grabbing the headboard, but it’s all that’s keeping him up.

Kent sinks his teeth into Bitty’s shoulder when he comes, hands crushing around Bitty’s hips. Bitty all but shouts, and Kent thunks his head down on his back and chokes for air. Neither one of them is ready to move.

“You okay?” Kent mumbles, and Bitty nods. He pulls out and Bitty winces hard; Kent doesn’t apologize, but he rubs Bitty’s back for a second.

Bitty flops over lying the wrong way, his feet up by the headboard. Kent joins him, because why not. He says, “I am so fucking tired.” and Kent kisses his shoulder.

_”Good._ Does Zimms not tire you out?”

“Stop competing with him! He’s not even here.”

“Did he text you?” Kent grabs Bitty’s phone with his toes and passes it up to his hand. Bitty snatches it from him.

“Ew, get your feet off my phone.”

“How is _that_ the grossest thing I've done tonight?”

“It’ll get all foot-smudgy.” He unlocks his phone. “Yikes, it’s late. He’s probably asleep.”

It looks like Jack saw all their photos and, sure enough, there’s one text.

_fuck_

Kent’s pressing his head against Bitty’s to look, too. “Fucking finally.”

“Do you think he’s up?”

“Find out.”

Bitty’s thumbs hover above the screen, because he has no idea what you're supposed to say after you send your boyfriend photos and videos of you giving another guy head.

_Are you up?_

He sets his phone on his chest, where his heart is still thundering away. Kent’s stretching his legs, bending his toes back with his hand. They’re both quiet.

Bitty jumps when his phone buzzes.

“Shit,” Kent laughs. “Go figure.”

Jack says, _yeah,_ and then, _holy shit bitty_

_Was that too much?_

_fuck no_

Kent whistles. “Alright, this is better. Ask him if he jerked off.”

“How do I even word that?”

“Just ask him. There’s no way he didn’t.”

_Where are you right now?_ Bitty asks instead.

_hotel room_

_Did you, uh_

He leaves it at that. Kent elbows him. “Wuss.”

“You can’t just ask someone if they masturbated!”

Jack texts back. _yeah_

Kent slaps Bitty’s shoulder like a joyous bro. “Fuckin’ knew it!”

Another text. _i was supposed to, right_

Kent bursts out laughing. Bitty texts, _Kent’s laughing at you,_ and then, quickly, _but yeah you were_

_are you sure?_

_I really hoped you would._

Kent finally stops laughing, kind of. it drops to a snigger and he presses his face into Bitty’s shoulders. “He’s such a loser.”

Bitty says, “You’re the one sexting someone else’s boyfriend,” and Kent smacks him.

“You’re the one fucking _me_ when you’re dating _him.”_

It was supposed to be a silly, self-deprecating joke, but it does something. Like coming down off a high, everything gets suddenly and sharply still, sombre and soft-edged. Bitty puts his phone down. Kent rolls onto his back. They’re both thinking about who’s missing.

“Are you tired?” Bitty asks, and Kent goes _mmhm._ “Let’s ... lie properly.”

They turn around and tuck under the sheets again. Kent says, “Ugh. Toast crumbs,” and Bitty laughs. They lie face to face and it seems like the right thing to do, so Bitty kisses him, and Kent leans into it. “Lemme get the light.”

Bitty relaxes once it’s dark. He checks his phone: Jack (2)

_i’ve gotta go to sleep but_

_you’re incredible. i don’t know what else to say_

Bitty can’t stop smiling. He types, _Go to sleep, it’s late. I can’t wait to see you._

_same. is parse there?_

Bitty tips his head and looks at Kent, who’s been watching. Kent nods.

_Yeah._

Jack says, _tell him thanks._

Kent snorts. “God.”

“That was sweet. What ... did you say to him? With those photos?”

“Nothing. Just bugging him.”

“Yeah?”

“Yep. I don’t even remember.”

“Hmm.” Bitty types, _Will do. Night. I’ll text you tomorrow,_ and locks his phone. He tucks it under his pillow and shifts onto his side to look at Kent. It’s dark with the curtains drawn and he can just make out Kent’s face. “I don’t believe you, but that’s okay.”

He doesn’t see Kent move in to kiss him. It’s soft.

When he pulls back, he says, “You guys don’t say you love each other,” and Bitty gets this painful spike of adrenaline in his chest, like tripping and falling.

“No,” he says slowly. “We don’t.”

“Ever?”

He almost says _not yet_ , which is the truth, but he isn't sure Kent wants to hear that. “Never.”

Kent doesn’t say anything right away. He’s not touching Bitty’s side, they’re just lying together. Bitty can hear him breathing in the dark. It’s intimate. It seems like a lifetime before Kent asks, _“Do_ you?”

It’s not like he hasn’t thought about it. Or like he doesn’t have an answer all lined up. He hasn’t talked about this to anyone, not Lardo or any of the boys, for all their jabs. It's ... a little scary. Dating is dating but love is long term, love is  _this means a lot to me,_ and how is he supposed to know what that means if he's never been in love before? He knows Jack's been in love. With Kent. Does he regret that? Would he regret Bitty someday? It's all scary. He  _wants_ to say it, and he thinks it sometimes, but he doesn't want to put pressure on Jack. They'll get there.

"I don't know,” he says, honestly. “I've never been in love before. I just ... Can I talk about this?" Kent nods. Bitty gestures aimlessly. "I think about singing to him, a lot, and I have no idea why. And when I know he's upset, it feels like gut rot. And I wish there was some way I could carry him around with me all day so I wouldn't have to go a second without him." He stops. "That all ... probably sounds awful, and insane."

"No," Kent sighs, and rubs his eyes. "That's about right."

He sounds despondent. Bitty remembers seeing him and Jack together last year, the way they kissed like they wanted it to hurt, the way Jack could hardly breathe when Kent was inside him.

“Kent ...”

“Don’t,” Kent almost snaps. He scoffs at himself. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“I’m not still in love with him.”

_Still._ “I know.”

“I’m not in love with _you,_ either.”

“I know.” Bitty touches his side, and he doesn’t flinch away. “It doesn’t matter. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Kent sighs angrily and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Okay, don’t repeat this, but—some days, I just—I wanna fuck off someplace, and give up hockey and everything, and get a stupid ranch in the middle of nowhere with some dude with big arms and blue eyes, and just—never have anyone look at me ever again."

Bitty holds back an _oh, Kent._ He doesn’t want to tell him he’s heard a variation on the same thing from Jack, who also didn’t want him to repeat it. He reaches up and strokes Kent’s hair out of his eyes.

"That's more or less what the guy in _Brokeback Mountain_ says before he gets murdered,” he says.

"Jake Gyllenhaal."

"Yeah. He wanted to run away and Heath Ledger wouldn't go with him."

"I'd get a ranch with Jake Gyllenhaal."

"Me too." Bitty's heart is breaking a little. He blinks a lot, grateful for the darkness, and smooths Kent's hair back down. "You're okay. It'll be okay."

"I should just fucking do it already, and tell everyone. Everyone must know."

Bitty doesn't know about that. He's read startlingly little about Kent's sexuality online, so little speculation—but if this were something that got talked about in professional sports, they wouldn't be having this conversation at all. If his teammates from tonight know, the whole world knowing can’t be far off. He thinks, if anyone could handle it, it’s Kent, who’s practically America’s sweetheart. He doesn't know what to say, so he tucks his head under Kent's chin.

"You'll be okay,” he whispers. It’s a little patronizing, but Kent doesn’t say anything about it.

“Probably.”

“Definitely,” Bitty insists. They’re hardly talking now, just breathy whispers. “We’ll wake up. We’ll go for brunch. We’ll find Rangers sweatshirts and overnight one to Jack to piss him off.”

Kent laughs. His arm comes up around Bitty and drags him closer, and their knees knock together. “I can’t wait.”

Bitty’s already drifting off.

 


	5. montreal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "My parents like you a lot. I think they always worried about who I was going to end up with. Some 'bad boy' who drinks too much, or something."
> 
> Bitty loops on the words _end up with, end up with_. He isn't sure Jack even realizes what he said.

 

 

Bitty cries at Lardo, Ransom and Holster's graduation, but it's not the end of the world. Jack gives him a set of keys to his apartment and every time he looks at them, it feels like his heart's going to explode. Jack jokingly asks if he wants to get them engraved, and Bitty almost does it to spite him. Delicate calligraphy, _Eric and Jack, 2016_ , on a couple tarnished yellow keys.

 

  


Jack gets a some time off for his twenty-sixth birthday, and him and Bitty fly to Montreal. They leave from Providence at the crack of dawn with just a small bag each, and it's not until they're sitting at the gate waiting to board that Bitty asks, "Do your parents even like me?"

Jack looks down at him. Their sneakers are touching but their knees aren't, carefully orchestrated. "What? Of course they do."

"Do they _actually_ like me, or am I comic relief? You're all so tall and pretty, I'm like, a head shorter than your mother. And last time they were in Prov, I couldn't stop babbling, and I think your dad laughed at me—"

"No, c'mon, it's fine." Jack laughs and lowers his voice. "They like you a lot. I think they always worried about who I was going to end up with. Some 'bad boy' who drinks too much, or something."

Bitty loops on the words _end up with, end up with_. He isn't sure Jack even realizes what he said. He looks around; there are a few faces turned towards theirs, people trying to figure out if Jack is who they think he is.

“I don’t ...  _not_ drink too much,” Bitty says slowly, still reeling. _End up with_. Lord.

“Yeah, but you're also the nicest person I've ever met." Jack looks around. "Also, they thought I was dating Shitty until I told them I was dating you, so."

Bitty bursts out laughing. "Does Shitty know this?"

"Yeah, he loves it. I think him and my dad still joke about it."

"Amazing."

  


 

The airplane has paid wifi, and it's a short flight but Jack gets it anyways. Bitty is careful to tweet that he's going away for the weekend, but not where, or with whom, which doesn't make him sad, necessarily, but it's something to think about.

They reach cruising altitude, and Jack bumps their shoulders together. He tips his phone towards Bitty. "Hey. We got noticed."

It's a tweet, with a zoomed-in cellphone photo of them at airport just now. It's really nice, actually—Jack's leaning into his space, when they were talking low, and they're both laughing. The tweet says _ZIMMERMANN SPOTTED AT PVD. I didn't know he could smile #Falcs_. It already has a dozen retweets.

It's sweet, out of context, but Bitty frowns. "Are you gonna get in trouble?"

"No. I'm allowed to laugh in public."

"You can see our feet are touching."

"I'm allowed do that, too." He drops his voice again. "There's always speculation. I'm not worried. It's not like we were, you know."

"I guess. _Speculation_ ," Bitty scoffs. "I haven't seen _half_ enough speculation about Jamie Benn and Tyler Seguin, frankly, so there's no way anyone's gonna talk about you and some _nobody_."

Jack chuckles. "I really don't think they're ..."

"Oh my God, Jack, we've been over this! You've _seen_ how they—"

"They're friends."

"Yeah, and so are we." He slouches down. "Your gaydar is in the shop. Your gaydar is _totaled_."

Jack laughs again and settles back into his seat. Bitty does a Twitter search for 'Jack Zimmermann,' curious, and a few tweets down, there's one that says, _oh my fucking god i am sitting behind jack zimmermann on a flight to mtl and he is so good looking irl. im going to die here_.

Bitty beams. "Jack," he whispers, "Look."

Jack takes his phone and, after a moment, grins. "Should I ..."

Bitty nods furiously. Jack turns around and looks over the backs of their seats and, sure enough, there's a teenage girl sitting behind them with her phone out.

"Hi," Jack says quietly, holding Bitty's phone up with the tweet on it. "I'm Jack."

She goes red and flounders around for words, looking absolutely shell shocked. She can't be older than eighteen. "I _know_ who you are, I—oh my God, I'm so sorry for tweeting about you, this is so awkward—"

"It's fine," Jack laughs. "What's your name?"

Her eyes are huge. "Um. Natasha. I ... will you sign my notebook? Is that weird? I have a pen."

"I can do that."

Jack takes her notebook and writes a little message in the front with his signature. Bitty elbows him in the side after he hands it back. "Softie."

  


 

As soon as they're through customs, Jack makes a beeline for the airport Tim Horton's and Bitty chirps him about it until they're outside the terminal. Bitty's spent time around Jack's parents before, as his boyfriend, even, but always day trips in Providence and never overnight in Montreal, and he's still nervous. Jack calls Bob and Bitty watches him speak quick and clear French into his phone, still a little mesmerized by it; Jack's good at stamping out his accent when he wants to, and it's easy to forget. It seems like he's more relaxed than last time they met up with his parents.

Jack hangs up and sips his iced coffee. "He's a couple minutes away."

"Good," Bitty says. "'S nice of him to pick us up."

"He insisted."

It's scorching hot out and Bitty's counting the moments until Jack mentions it, preparing an arsenal of chirps. When Jack doesn't say anything about it, he says, "I've never been to Canada."

"I know." Jack laughs. "It's not so different."

"It is, too. People sometimes say they're the same, but, I don't know." Bitty looks around. "Seems different already. I can _tell_ these people are Canadian."

"You can not."

"Can too. _You're_ different."

"No, I'm not."

"You are too, you're soft-spoken and self-aware."

"Those aren't—"

"They're definitely Canadian things."

A shiny black car pulls up to the curb—Bitty has no idea what you'd call it—and Jack picks his bag up and shifts it on his shoulder. "This is him."

"Of course it is."

Bob is extremely nice, as is Alicia, but Bitty's palms are clammy anyways. Bob parks in the arrivals lane and climbs out. "Boys! Good to see you." His accent is ten times thicker than Jack's, and it always makes Bitty smile.

Bitty says, "Hi, Mr. Zimmermann," and Jack and Bob scoff at exactly the same time.

"Jack," Bob says, as Jack goes around the back of the car to the trunk, "What have you been telling this boy about me, that he refuses to call me by my name?"

"He's stubborn," Jack says, and drops their bags in the back.

"I am not! I just—"

"He is southern," Bob says, and him and Jack chuckle.

"Okay! Wh—Sorry, B-Bob. _Bob_. There. Fine."

"Thank you," Bob says. He gets back into the car. "Sorry to bother you. Nice to see you again, Eric."

"You, too. What a lovely car."

Jack swings into the front and smiles at him. "He's polite, eh?"

Bob laughs and Bitty glares.

  


 

Bob and Jack speak English in the car, probably for Bitty's benefit, even if they're not talking directly to him. Being around Jack's parents used to freak him out, and it still kind of does, but it was easier once he got over the initial shock of _they know we're dating, they know I've touched dicks with their only son._  Jack told him the house his parents live in now isn't the same one that he grew up in, that they moved to a smaller place once he moved out, and when Bitty sees the size of the house they're in now, he can only imagine what the old one was like.

"Oh my gosh, your home is beautiful," Bitty says before the car has even rolled to a stop, and Jack smirks at him but doesn't say anything.

As soon as they're through the door, Jack is fiercely hugging his mom, which might be the sweetest thing Bitty has ever seen in his twenty-one years. Alicia Zimmermann is so beautiful that Bitty can't look directly at her, like a supernova. She's almost as tall as Jack and looks just like Adele, which was completely lost on Jack when Bitty told him, but it's still true. She gathers Bitty up in her arms and hugs him, laughing softly.

"It's so good to see you, hi." Her accent isn't quite as thick as Bob's, and it doesn't trip him up. He heard people talk about how Jack's mom was a model, but when he met her and learned that she was a plus-sized model, specifically, they had a great talk about body image in the fashion industry and America's Next Top Model over lunch. Jack told him after that that was when she really started to like him. That was definitely when Bitty fell in love with her, even if he still gets tongue-tied.

"Hi, Mrs. Zimmermann. Um. Alicia. Sorry." He hears Jack chuckle from behind him, and Alicia lets him go. "Your home is _so_ beautiful, thank you for letting us stay."

"Eric, of course! You're family." Bitty watches her eyes flick to Jack over the top of his head. "Oh. Sorry, baby."

Bitty turns around. Jack's ears are red.

Bitty grins. "What?"

"Nothing." Jack toes his sneakers off and picks both their bags up. "C'mon, we'll put our stuff upstairs." As he passes Alicia, he snips something at her that Bitty doesn't understand, and she says something back, but they're both smiling.

  


 

Their room upstairs is big and bright and has hardwood floors and an ensuite bathroom. Bitty's wearing shorts of an appropriate length and a tank top, and doesn't feel like changing until it cools down. He doesn't expect Jack's parents to want him to be formal.

"I love your mother, Jack. I love her _so_ much."

Jack drops their bags on the bed. "I was hoping I wouldn't have to get the 'hot mom' routine from you, of all people, Bittle," he jokes.

"My gayness has nothing to do with how hot your mom is. My love for her is as pure as the driven snow."

He runs his hands down Jack's chest and leans up for a kiss, but Jack holds him back.

"Don't kiss me two seconds after you call my mom hot."

Bitty laughs. "Touchy."

  


 

Downstairs, Alicia offers Bitty a mimosa, which he only declines in the interest of not being drunk by noon. They sit on their back patio in the shade and catch up, and it all feels very adult. Jack's arm is resting on his leg, his hand between his knees, and every so often he takes his hand in his and plays with it, turns it over, taps their fingers. It's not subtle, and it's in front of his parents, which is a first; they've only gone out to restaurants in Providence, so he's rarely been around Jack _and_ his parents in private, like they are now, and apparently it facilitates hand-touching. It's a little embarrassing in a really, really good way.

He was there when Jack told them they were dating. To Bitty's complete lack of surprise, it was unceremonious and blunt. It was over the phone, and went something like, "Hi maman. Yeah. Yeah, that would be great, that's a good restaurant. We can meet you there. Bittle. Yeah, is that alright? No, we're dating. Thank you. I know, me too." Bitty knew Jack was out to his parents—he told him an awful, amazing story about them walking in on him and Kent when he was seventeen, which is about as _out_ as you can get—but it was still surprising to hear him say it with such ease. But, to be fair, he was talking to his mom, not his dad. And now, however many months later, they're sitting on a lacquered deck in an upscale Montreal suburb, and Bob and Alicia are drinking mimosas, and Jack has his hand between his knees, and Bob keeps smirking like he wants to laugh. After a few minutes, Bitty realizes that they've probably never seen Jack like this, existing comfortably with someone, romantically, and the thought of that makes his chest get tight. 

Alicia rests her champagne glass on her drawn-up knee and her bracelet chimes against the stem. "Eric, you're graduating next spring, n'est-ce pas? Do you two have any big plans?"

The plurality of the question gives him pause, the _you two_. Obviously, Bitty has implicitly assumed that yes, maybe, probably, he will still be with Jack next spring, but he's been careful not to mention it, not wanting to scare Jack off by being the starry-eyed youth who believes in forever. But, Jack has given him zero indication that he's being scared off—he gave him a set of keys—and now that Bitty thinks about it, he's made a few 'future talk' comments in the past, about _next summer we'll do this,_ or _by this time next year._ So, maybe Alicia asking if they're moving in together isn't such a stretch.

He's taken too long to say something, and Bob laughs and gently elbows Alicia where she's leaning against his side. "Al, you're embarrassing them, they are trying to be aloof."

"It's fine!" Bitty says quickly. "Well, I know I'm not going to graduate school, that's for sure. I want to maybe get a certificate in business studies or entrepreneurship, maybe, something like that, but I don't know." He looks down. "Which there might be programs for in Providence."

Jack just squeezes his knee and says, "Neat," and the three of them chuckle to each other.

 

  


They make sandwiches for lunch and eat inside, where there's air conditioning. It's only two in the afternoon but Jack has a shower, and comes back damp and smelling heavenly, and Bitty's conversation with Bob about college football stutters to a halt when he walks into the room. He's wearing a nice, wide-necked t-shirt that they picked out together after Jack had said, "Bittle, dress me." His skin is scrubbed and glowing.

"I was thinking I could show you around," he says, coming up to Bitty. "There's a big park nearby, lots of trails and stuff."

Bitty beams. "I'd like that. If you think you can stop yourself from melting in the sun."

"I grew up here," Jack scoffs. "Montreal heat isn't Georgia heat."

Bob grins and says something in French, and the only words Bitty catches are _Georgia_ and, later, _Predators_ , and Jack's ears go red.

"No," he says. "We—They’re not even close." He looks at Bitty. "We can go now if you want."

"Sure," Bitty says. "Let me get sunscreen."

 

  


Bitty's palms are sweating in the heat, but Jack still holds his hand when no one's around. The park is giant and wooded, and made of cedar-chipped paths winding through trees, clearings, fallen logs. Bitty asks, "Are you sure this is okay?" and Jack's careful, but he says, "I'm on vacation," and Bitty laughs. It's disconcertingly easy. All of this, with Jack, has been the most uncharted territory he has ever ventured into, but at the same time, it feels simple, like it's something he's always known how to do. It's been eighteen months, and sometimes Jack gets inconsolable, and Bitty gets tired, but by and large, it's been so, so good. The air is hot and thick and smells like peat and moss, and Jack's hand feels strong and rough in his.

Bitty asks, "Would you beat someone up for me?"

"Yes. Obviously."

"You didn't even ask if he's bigger than you! I'm flattered."

"Of course I wouldn't, God. You wouldn't want me to beat someone up for no reason, so, I'd trust that."

"Would you go see Beyoncé with me?"

"Yeah. That ... could be fun." Jack looks down at him. "What are you doing?"

"Just askin' stuff."

"Oh. Would you go golfing with me and my dad?"

Bitty grimaces. "Um. Yes."

Jack laughs and puts his arm around him. "I won't ask you to."

"I really would!"

"That's okay. I don't want you to."

"Oh, now we _have_ to go, mister."

"Please can we not."

Bitty laughs, and they lapse into a companionable silence. A bird crashes through trees above their heads, only small wedges of sky visible through the canopy of leaves. Sweat rolls down the back of Bitty's neck and he impatiently wipes it away. 

He starts, "Hey, uh," and Jack looks down at him. "Your mama's been real smiley. And making comments. Is there something I should know?"

Jack's ears go red instantly. "No."

"You sure?"

"Uh, also, no."

Bitty grins. "Jack Laurent, did you talk to your mother about me?"

"Maybe." He looks away. "When we went out for Rans, Holster and Lardo's grad, to that bar, I might have ... called her, after. And. Yeah."

Bitty all but squeals. "Did you _drunkenly call your mother_ to get emotional about me? _You?"_

Jack's full-on red now. "Who else was I supposed to call? Parse?"

"Oh my God, Jack, you are such a mama's boy and this is the best thing I have ever, ever learned about you." Bitty wraps his arm around Jack's. "Never change. You're perfect. You big sap."

"She texted me the next day and made fun of me. She's _still_ making fun of me."

"You three are great, oh my gosh. You're all so funny with each other! My family is incapable of banter. My dad would like, backhand me. I don't know how you do it."

"It's pretty new, actually."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I don't know. It always used to be so tense when I came home. I think they were worried, and I was angry, and everything fell flat all the time, it was awful. Now ... I don't know. I'm playing again, and there's you, and they've got less to worry about, I guess? And I have less to be mad about."

"Wow. That's sweet." Bitty slips his hand down Jack's arm, squeezes his hand, and lets go. "I'm glad I might've indirectly improved your relationship with your family."

"You definitely did. It's pretty direct."

"Nonsense, you're feeling better because of _you_. You're doing what you love, and you're excelling at it, and you work so hard and you're handling it all so well, that's all _you_. I'm just, y'know, here. I don't deserve credit."

Jack looks around, then stoops down and kisses the top of Bitty's head. He says, "You make me happy," and leaves it at that, as if it explains everything, and Bitty can't stop smiling.

  


 

The park's woods come out into a big, grassy clearing, circled by picnic tables, with a parking lot down at the far end. Other than a group playing frisbee and a family on a blanket under a tree, it's not that busy, and there's no one near the woods.

"Want to sit for a bit?" Jack asks.

"In this heat? You're crazy."

"This one's in the shade," he says, nodding towards one of the shoddy picnic tables near the wooded edge. "I don't want to go back yet."

"Fair enough."

Bitty hops up on the table, looking out over the park and, to his surprise, Jack sits on the bench below and settles between his legs, his back up against Bitty's chest.

It's a reflex for him to say, "Someone's gonna see."

Jack tips his head back and looks up into Bitty's bewildered face above his. "We're far enough away. If someone gets close, I'll move."

"They're gonna recognize you."

"Not from far away, I look like every white guy with brown hair. Even if they did see me, I could say I'm not him."

"Not Jack Zimmermann."

"Right."

Bitty sighs, smiling, and winds his arms around Jack's shoulders in defeat. "Okay. So who are you, then? Does your openly gay alter ego have a name?"

Jack hums. "I always liked Thierry."

"Like Terry?"

"Like, French Terry."

"It's pretty. Surname?"

"Hm. Miller."

"That's not very French."

"Well, maybe Thierry isn't from here."

"Fascinating." Bitty puts his head on top of Jack's, and Jack's hand fiddles with the laces on Bitty's sneaker. It feels like it's getting hotter and hotter, but that can't be real. They watch the frisbee bros run around, chuckling when one trips and falls. Jack's hand moves idly up and down Bitty's calf. It's almost enough to lull him to sleep; he didn't get much last night.

Eventually, he says, "So, can you believe we said we liked each other, had our first kiss, and had sex all on the same night, and now we've been together for a year and a half? It's kind of crazy, isn't it?"

"I never thought of it like that. Are you mad that I didn't court you?"

Bitty kisses the back of his head. "You've done plenty of courting since then."

"And technically before. I mean, I feel like I've bought you enough coffee and froyo to last a lifetime."

"They're not dates if I didn't _know_. Even if I wanted them to be."

"I did, too. We were stupid."

"And look at us now. One-point-five years and a weekend with the parents."

"I know." Jack leans against him more heavily. "It's nice."

"Very." He bumps his head against Jack's, rubs his nose in his hair. They're quiet for a few long moments, Jack leaning against Bitty's chest, Bitty's fingers tracing patterns against his abdomen. "You know your accent's really coming out already? I love it. I remember when you'd come back from the summer, at Samwell, and it would be so thick, and I remember thinking about how English isn't your first language, 'cause it's easy to forget sometimes, and how amazing that is." He tucks his chin into the corner of Jack's neck. "I think I want you to just talk to me in French all day, one day. I'd have no idea what you're sayin' but I'd just wanna hear you, you sound so comfortable. It's beautiful." He pauses. "Sorry, was that weird?"

Jack takes a breath. He's gone so still and Bitty thinks maybe he's done something wrong, like that was too much.

But then Jack says, "I'm in love with you," and Bitty feels a hot flush roll from the tips of his ears all the way down his body to where it boils in the arches of his feet, and everything stops. Everything is his arms around Jack's middle, the rise and fall of his chest, his soft shirt. After a few long, silent moments, Jack asks, "You knew that, right?"

"No," Bitty says, softer than cotton, modal, anything. "Turn around."

They stand up. Jack fits his arms around Bitty's waist, and Bitty takes his face in both his hands and tips him down and holds him there, as if to say _look at me_. His eyes are so, so blue in natural light, a little tired, wide and nervous.

"I love you, too," Bitty tells him, and it feels less like a confession than it does just telling a secret, something private and, until now, unspoken, but as real as anything else. "Did you know _that?"_

"I thought, maybe." His 'thought' comes out so heavily accented without being guarded enough to stamp it out, _tot_. He runs his nose along Bitty's. "Thought I was projecting."

"No." Bitty reels at the thought that Jack is this entire human being, not someone he dreamed up, who's the centre of his own personal universe the way Bitty is the centre of his own, who existed before he met him and will keep existing after him, who has no reason to love him except that he _does_ , that he's choosing to.

He tells him the truth, which is, "I wanna cry."

Jack laughs. "You can if you want to."

There's mirth in his voice, so Bitty says, "Shut up," and hugs him as tight as he can, arms folded around his neck, cheek pressed against his chest. Jack scoops him up in his arms so tight that his breath hitches, and he buries his face in Bitty's shoulder and oozes so much _feeling_ , so foreign to find in him, like every second he spent not saying it is feeding back into this moment. Bitty wouldn't be surprised if his lashes were wet when he looked at him again. He didn't think his face could get any hotter and it's so stupid to think he's blushing at a time like this, like he's embarrassed about being in love. In love and sweaty, standing by a rotting picnic table in Montreal.

"I love you so much I wanna throw up sometimes," Bitty says. "It's so gross. You make me feel like every pop song."

"I know." Jack's hands run up into his hair, crushing, grabbing him closer. "I'm so fucking crazy about you—"

"I know. Me too, oh my _God_ , Jack." Bitty laughs, because he doesn't know what else to do, because Jack's squeezing him so hard he can barely breathe. After a few long, long moments, the reflex kicks in. "We should probably—"

This time, Jack says, "Yeah," and lets him go, but he's beaming in a way that he only really does when he's laughing, and to see it now as a pure, still grin, is shocking. "I—I didn't say it, before, because—I don't know, it just didn't ..."

"I know," Bitty says again, and wants to get close to him so bad, and press his face in his shirt and kiss him and kiss him and kiss him. He snags his hand instead, which is a measure more subtle. "I've, um. Been thinking it for a while, if that's okay to say."

He expects a flicker of uncertainty, but Jack's eyes just glow. "I've ... definitely been thinking it." He pulls Bitty back to the table and they sit, both on the bench this time, bare knees knocking. "I gave you keys to my place. Come on, Bittle."

"How are you in love with me but still calling me _Bittle?"_

Jack laughs and stretches his arm across the edge of the table, behind Bitty's back. "First names, eh? That's moving pretty quick."

"I hate you."

"That's sending mixed signals."

Bitty groans and shoves him, but his face hurts from smiling. "Lord, can you ever turn that off? How much do we have to love each other before you stop chirping me at _every_ possible opportunity?"

Jack looks over their shoulders to make sure there's no one behind them, then presses a kiss into Bitty's hair and lingers there. "A lot."

They both go quiet. Their feet are bumped together, Bitty's sneaker against Jack's ankle, calves touching, and Bitty leans back against his arm. It's as close as he thinks Jack would ever get in public, even if he _had_ come out. It's a conversation they've had before, and Jack insists it won't take forever, that he's going to. Bitty wants him to be comfortable, and Jack wants it to go well, so they're waiting. There'll be a right time, and he's pretty sure Georgia already knows, anyways, with all the looks she gives him when he mentions Bitty, which he tries to do as little as possible, which is still a _lot_. If he's lucky—and Jack considers himself very, very lucky lately—she's been subtly prepping management.

"This is great," Bitty says. "I know I said that already, but, being here ... it's great. Thank you."

"I'm sorry we can't travel more," Jack says softly. "It's funny ... I've never really been _alone_ , I've always had a family, teammates, whether I wanted them or not. But, uh—this sounds stupid, but—it feels like the first time I haven't been _lonely_ is—this." He clears his throat. "You, I mean. Being with you."

Bitty takes a sharp breath in and holds it. He looks at the guys throwing a frisbee around at the far end of the field, and lets the breath out, and says, "I love you," just because he can. "That's so nice. I'm so glad you ... God, Jack, you're gonna kill me."

Jack smiles and turns towards him again. "Just being honest."

"I know. It's amazing." Bitty stands and works an ankle. "We're disgusting. Let's keep walking before we get any sappier. You're gonna turn me into a puddle."

  


 

When they get back to the house, they have lunch with Jack's parents, Bitty and Alicia at the breakfast bar while Jack and Bob eat in front of the TV, watching golf. Bitty hasn't been able to stop smiling the entire time, and Jack keeps turning around to look at him. 

_There he is_ , Bitty thinks every time. _There's Jack. Being in love with me. Right over there._

  


 

After lunch, they all lounge around for a bit, and Bitty gets a full tour of the house from Jack. When they get back to the kitchen, Alicia announces that her and Bob are going to run errands and shop for dinner, and won't be back for a couple hours. She makes a grocery list with Bitty based on previously-talked-about dinner plans, and her and Bob leave. Bitty notices Jack carefully avoiding his mother's gaze so he doesn't get winked at, but Bitty isn't as good at it, so she manages to wink at him instead.

They watch their SUV pull out of the driveway from the front window. As they climb the stairs, Jack says, "If it helps, they both made smirky-faces at Parse until last year. Or maybe they still do."

"That's hilarious. Now I know where you get it."

"They're awful."

They get to their room and Jack shuts the door behind them. Bitty groans and stretches.

"They'll be out for a bit, huh? I might grab a—"

"You should fuck me," Jack says, all in a rush.

Bitty stops dead. 

He turns slowly around.

Jack says, "Sorry."

"What?"

"What _what?"_

"What did you say?" They both know he knows, anyways, so he isn't sure why he asks. There was no other sound in the room.

"I ..." Jack looks like he wants to die. "We could ... do it the other way around. If you want."

Bitty opens his mouth and snaps it shut. They're just _staring_ at each other and he knows he has to say something but he's totally blindsided, and for all he's thought about this moment, he's extremely unprepared.

"Are you serious?"

"Yeah."

"Where is this coming from? Is this because we're in love now?"

"I think we've been in love longer than the past hour. Just 'cause we said it."

"I know, but." He doesn't really know anything. He has no idea what to do with this information. Sure, he's thought about it, but he was always sure there would be alcohol involved. He can still count on one hand the number of times he's seen Jack drunk, and in all honesty, it's pretty sweet; he smiles a lot, swears a little more and gets handsy, all of which is somehow charming, and gets him chirped mercilessly. He pictured Jack not-so-subtly bringing it up after a drink or five, awkward but earnest, embarrassed but flirty in his own way. The sobriety means a lot, as does the fact that it's the middle of the afternoon, but it's scary. Bitty wishes _he_ was drunk. "But," he says again, "you actually want to?"

Jack looks down. "We should sit."

Bitty hadn't realized they weren't. They sit on the bed, Jack looking at his bare feet, Bitty cross-legged next to him.

"I mean," Bitty says quickly, "I'm just asking because—not because I _don't_ want to, I just—maybe you're humouring me?"

It's a big, big trust thing. It's the most vulnerable thing Bitty can think of, and it's almost baffling that he does it all the time with Jack, letting him inside his body. He's known Jack has qualms about it since that first night with Kent, where he didn't want Bitty to see him bottom. He also knows that Kent has bugged Jack about it at least two times that Bitty knows about, to say nothing of the times he doesn't. It wouldn't be a big deal if it hadn't been so long already.

"I'm not," Jack says. "Sorry. It's embarrassing."

Bitty watches him, and he doesn't look stressed or tense, exactly. It's just pure, unfiltered awkwardness, which is somehow better.

"I think," Bitty says carefully, "that you _think_ you're supposed to find it embarrassing. That you're ... that boys like you are supposed to be the ones who top. A masculinity thing."

Jack's quiet for a moment. He smiles. "I'll be twenty-six tomorrow, Bitty. I think you have to stop calling me a _boy_ eventually."

"You're missing the point."

"No, I ..." He looks down at his hands. "Yeah. I get it. I don't know. You're probably right."

Bitty ducks his head to look at him. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. It's ..." He plays with his hands. "I'm sorry. I'm being awkward. We shouldn't have talked about it, it's not—"

"No! It's good, this is good." Bitty takes his hands. "We can talk about it. You're not awkward. This is normal. I just—" Jack looks up, and the blatant uncertainty in his eyes takes his breath away. Bitty presses on. "You ... actually want me to?"

"Do _you_ actually want to?"

"I—" He stops. He laughs. "I have no idea, honestly. Can I? Like, is this even something I'm capable of? It seems so ..." There's no good way to end that sentence, and Jack laughs at him.

"I think you can," Jack says, in this sweet, funny tone. "If you wanted. That's why I brought it up."

"Does this have anything to do with Kent?" Bitty asks, before he can chicken out. Jack looks surprised. "When we were ... When I was in New York, he asked if you and I had yet, and when I said no, he had my phone, and I wondered if maybe he said something to you about it."

Jack's eyes flicker. "Not really."

"What does that mean?"

"Well. The thing in Vegas, where I didn't want him to, I guess. That made me think about it. I was being stupid."

"But you did it anyways, and that was good," Bitty says, leaning in. "What _did_ he say to you on Snapchat?"

Jack runs his thumbs down the bones in the back of Bitty's hands, and Bitty can't tell if he's stalling or trying to remember.

"He said something like, 'this kid's perfect for you.' And something about not letting you go."

Bitty doesn't know what he expected, but it wasn't that. That's nothing _they've_ talked about, even, and the thought of Kent being startlingly sincere with Jack when Bitty had his dick in his mouth is amusing, to say the absolute least.

"Oh, that's ... I thought he was being mean."

"There was lots of that, too." Jack drops his hands and grabs his hips in both palms, pulls him closer, half into his lap. Bitty hooks his legs over Jack's thighs. "After the 'perfect for you,' he said, 'you're both the worst.' And there was stuff about how good you felt, bragging about how he made you come twice."

Bitty goes red. "That's more what I expected."

Jack laughs. "Yeah. Lots of that, don't worry." He runs his nose along Bitty's. "He likes you, though."

"He's got a funny way of showing it."

"He does, actually." Jack kisses him once, unbearably soft. Bitty can feel him breathe. "And I love you," he says against his lips, as if he's testing it out, the way the new words feel in his mouth and how they hang between them.

"I love you, too," Bitty breathes. "And we can do whatever you're okay with." He lets his hands creep up Jack's arms. "But, you didn't answer my question. You really _want_ me to?"

Jack kisses him again, more insistent, drawing his lower lip between his and sucking. He takes his face in both his hands and mumbles, "I wouldn't have said anything if I didn't want you to."

"That's not answering the question," Bitty teases.

Jack nips at him, moves his thumbs over his cheekbones. "Bittle, I've been thinking about it for _two years_. I don't know what else to tell you." This time when he kisses him, he bites, and Bitty gasps, lost in the thought of Jack wanting this enough to think about it before they were even together; Jack, watching him at Samwell, thinking about getting fucked by him before Bitty had the courage to have a full conversation with him.

Jack lifts him under his thighs and eases him back onto the bed and Bitty keeps him in close, desperately trying to talk in between kisses.

"You—should have said something earlier—I would have—"

"Well," Jack says, pushing his shirt up. "You don't gild the lily."

Bitty laughs against his lips and lets him press him into the mattress for a moment before he pushes back.

"I know they're not home, but lemme shut the blinds, at least."

Jack kisses him again and huffs, not angry, before rolling off him. He flops down and the sheets flounce up around him as he watches Bitty go to the curtains and draw them shut. The room gets glowy and warm, still midday in summer and not quite dark, dead silent except for Jack's feet scuffing nervously against the hardwood floor.

Bitty looks at him out of the corner of his eye. "Should I light some candles?"

"You're not helping."

He comes and stands in front of Jack on the bed, still lying with his hair flopped over his forehead, looking back at him. Talking about it has slowed everything down. It's two in the afternoon. It's August 2nd. It's almost a hundred degrees outside. They've done this rushed and frantic, quick, sloppy, and in front of Kent Parson. They've done it slow, half asleep and tantric, clutching at each other like the last living things on Earth, and with their fingers lazily laced, and in front of the bathroom mirror, and in Jack's kitchen, and in the shower, and crammed into Bitty's twin bed, and tumbling over the king-sized expanse of Jack's. It's taken hours or thirty seconds. They've done it hundreds of times in the past year and a half, and today is still different. Every single time has been different. Bitty's palms are sweating.

He pulls his shirt off and Jack sits up on the edge of the bed and kisses his chest, his ribs and stomach. Bitty drops his shirt and starts working his shorts off. Down the block, someone starts a lawn mower. Bitty threads his fingers through Jack's thick hair. 

"Did you two do it like this often?" he asks, no clarification. Jack knows.

"Yeah, we ... usually."

He imagines Jack lying on his front, Kent covering him, face pressed to his neck, so deep inside him neither of them can speak. A shudder rolls down his spine and he knows Jack feels it. He steps out of his shorts.

When Jack's pulling his shirt over his head, Bitty says, "That's hot," and Jack laughs from inside it. Bitty smooths Jack's staticky hair down and runs his hands down his neck and across his strong, hard shoulders and thinks, _I love you, I love you, I love you._

"Good," Jack says, and drops his chin on Bitty's chest, looking up at him. "I thought maybe you'd ... not be into it."

"You know I'm into it," Bitty admonishes. "I have _seen_ you bottom, in front of me. I know it was a while ago, but give yourself some credit."

Jack tugs him down and kisses him, likely to avoid talking. He stands to get his shorts off, never breaking their kiss for longer than they can help it. He lies back and Bitty straddles him, both just in their boxers, kissing to calm their nerves.

"You have a type," Bitty says, because somehow talking makes this easier, which he thinks is a really good sign. "You like little guys?"

"Apparently," Jack says, a bit breathless. "Sue me."

"How little?" Bitty teases.

"You're—about the lower limit. Don't wanna—crush you."

"You couldn't." Bitty tests something. He runs his hands down Jack's arms to his wrists and grabs them, then eases each of them back down to the mattress where he holds them, squeezing, pushing his weight forward. Jack's pupils dilate.

"Jesus."

"This okay?"

"Yeah."

He's held Jack down a bit before and it's always intense, more-so now. He rolls his hips in Jack's lap for a few long moments, feeling Jack's wrists flex under his hands, testing his grip and meeting as much resistance as Bitty can reasonably give, and it's enough. He's staring, which Bitty loves. The muscles in his abdomen are tense from holding back, which Bitty also loves. Everything they're doing feels uncharted and slow, and he loves that, too. There's very little, if anything, that he doesn't love about Jack.

Bitty smiles. "You're already hard."

"I like ..." He flexes his wrists, but says, "You," and Bitty laughs.

"I like you too," he says. Another roll of his hips, and another, and Jack's shoulders get tight.

"We should do this."

"You're so impatient! You always bug me _._ It's my turn."

Jack groans and drops his head against the bed, but his hips come up and move with Bitty's anyways. Bitty wants to get his briefs down but doesn't want to let Jack's wrists go, wants to get this over with and wants it to last forever at the same time.  He ends up flipping onto his back to pull his briefs off, and Jack kicks his down and goes to cover Bitty's body with his own, but Bitty laughs and presses his hands against his chest.

"Nuh-uh. Lie back."

Jack hardly looks nervous, which says so much. He thumps his head back against the pillows and Bitty climbs over him and sits between his legs, and realizes, belatedly, that he's been so fixated on making sure _Jack's_ not nervous that he hasn't had a second to think about how nervous _he_ is, which is a lot. He's seen Jack do this, obviously, and he knows how it works, but he still feels weird and stupid and tiny now that it's actually happening.

"Oh," Jack says, and sits up to lean over the side of the bed and snag his bag off the floor. He gets a little bottle of lube and a string of condoms from a side pouch, then leaves them carefully on the bed, presumably for Bitty. "It's okay that you're nervous," he says against his cheek, thumbing at his hipbones, teasingly refusing to touch him. _It's okay_ is leagues better than _don't be nervous_ , and Bitty loves him for it. "I want you to. I'll like it." He finally wraps his fingers around him, and Bitty sighs against his mouth, feeling better by the second. He tries to get out of his own head and relax, and it works; Jack, smiling into their kisses, touching him, dick pulsing in his hand, helps.

He reaches down and tears a condom from the string without breaking their kiss, but hesitates once he's got it. He moves back and Jack breathes hard, looks at him, eyes dark.

"Can you ..." Bitty trails off. He wants to die. "I've never put a condom on before."

Jack gives him a helpless look that perfectly conveys _oh, bless your heart._

Before he can say anything, Bitty goes, "Shush! Ugh! This is your fault! You know I've only been with you, and haven't—well, it's not like I did with _Kent_."

"They didn't teach you how to do it in sex ed?"

"In Georgia? Our sex ed was our school counsellor telling us not to have sex, once."

"You could have Googled it."

"Jack, I swear to God—"

"Kidding, kidding." Jack laughs against his lips. "I got you."

Jack tears the package and rolls it on for him, and bites at his collarbone while he does it in lieu of leaving a hickey. He lies back down and Bitty can't tower over him like Jack does, like Bitty loves, where he boxes him in with his arms and body and lets him feel his weight, but he can at least reach his mouth. They kiss as Bitty shifts around, gets comfortable, and it's easier than he thought. He sits back, and looking at Jack in front of him like this strikes something sweet and raw inside him; again, uncharted territory.

"I love your big thighs," Bitty coos, mostly to bug him, and Jack drops his arm over his face and smiles.

"Shut up."

"They're my favourite. You're so strong."

"You just—in hockey—"

"If you give me your ‘hockey makes you squat’ speech, I am stopping _right now._ "

"Don't," he says, unabashedly sharp, needy. Bitty runs his hands down Jack's stomach, lines up, feels his abs tense. He tries so, so hard not to get emotional.

"I wanna make you feel how you make _me_ feel," he breathes, and Jack ducks his head. So much for that. "Oh, good, you're embarrassed, it's working."

His heart thunders in his ears. He focuses his eyes on a freckle on Jack's shoulder and starts to ease in. Jack makes a sound in his throat, raw, unintentional and sharp, and the first thing Bitty says is, “I’m gonna pass out." Jack laughs, but it’s not mean, and he doesn’t sound entirely okay himself.

“Breathe,” he reminds him, and Bitty tries. He thunks his head down on Jack’s collarbone.

_“God_ , you’re so—is this always—”

“Yeah,” Jack says right away, voice tight. “You can do it, just. Come _on_.”

Bitty doesn’t feel like he can do it. He doesn’t feel like his body is working at all, or if it is, it’s not his own, like he's watching this happen to someone else. He sinks all the way inside him and the feel of it knocks the air out of his lungs; that, and Jack’s hands digging into his ribs, holding him, trying to pull him closer as if there’s any _closer_ left to get into. He wants to tell him he loves him again, and that he trusts him, and that he'd trust him with anything now, and the fact that Jack feels the same way makes him feel like he's gonna melt, the same way this does, because the heat and tightness and slickness of his body is unbearable.

"I remember," Bitty says against his cheek, jaw trembling, "when we were with Kent, and he was inside you, and I thought about how you were feeling what I was feeling and how _crazy_ and hot that was, and you looked so ... I can't imagine how that must have felt."

"It was a lot to ..."

"I know. Or, I do now, sort of."

"Maybe you can be in the middle next time," Jack teases.

_"Next time?"_

"Shh," Jack says, slipping his hand back into his hair.

"Don't _shh_ me, you started it!"

He stutters and stops when Jack's heel presses into the small of his back, urging him on, closer, deeper, and he forgets what they were talking about. It's hard to concentrate, hard to do much of anything but _move_ , which feels both the same and different than it normally does, where all he can do is hold on and try not to die. He feels awkward and he's sure it's not perfect, but he's past self-consciousness, with Jack's hands grabbing at his thighs, his head tipped back, lost in it, stretched out underneath him; it must be okay. He feels wild, infinite, and wonders if this is what Jack feels every time.

He brings himself to the edge a few times and has to stop, slow down, bow his head and try to breathe. Jack's hands are shaking and they're both louder than they ever are. The lawn mower outside has stopped. He wants to go for it and Jack clutches at his tense arms, and he's sweating and he knows he should be embarrassed but he's _lost_ , moving, fucking, and he thinks about Kent and the way he sounds, _c'mon, you're so good, I'm almost there_ , and he doesn't know how much of it he says out loud before he starts to come. 

He curls his toes and it hits him hard and he bows over, shaking, fucking Jack through it. It feels like it lasts forever, like every nerve in his body is frayed by the end of it. Jack has his hand on the back of his neck.

"Jesus Christ," he says from above him, and it sounds far away to Bitty's rushing ears. He can feel Jack's dick still hard against his stomach. "I'm close, you ..."

"Wait." It's gentle, not an order. Bitty's still dizzy but he pulls out, eliciting a soft sound from Jack, and shucks the condom and moves down his body. He gets a louder sound when he swipes his tongue over the head of his dick, louder when he sucks him into his mouth. Jack's fingers thread through Bitty's hair automatically and his back arches off the bed, and Bitty's fast and wet and enthusiastic and Jack sobs raggedly when he comes, clutching at the sheets. Bitty swallows most of it and lets the rest drip down his knuckles as he sits back and tries to catch his breath. Jack is a _vision_ , flushed all the way down his chest, still dazed and coming back to himself.

"Fuck." He huffs and a laugh bubbles out, all disbelief. He looks up at Bitty, who's still just looking back, hair mussed, colour high on his cheeks. "We did it."

Bitty laughs. "We did."

"Come here."

Bitty crawls up next to him and burrows into his side, face pressed to his warm skin, heart still fighting at his rib cage.

"God, Jack."

"You okay?"

_"Yes."_ He throws an arm over Jack's chest and snuggles closer. "I didn't hurt you?"

"I'm fine."

"I can’t believe we ... Why'd we wait so long?"

"Because I'm an idiot." Jack kisses the side of his head and laughs again, snaking an arm behind his back. Bitty shudders, still looped in reliving it and trying to commit it to memory; Jack under him, kissing him, fingers digging desperately at his sides. He feels like he's glowing from the inside out.

He gets dopey and slow and Jack traces patterns on his bare shoulder, and he revels in the delicious ache of sore muscles he's never used. That didn't take long, to his slowly-dawning embarrassment, so he knows they have time to just lie here before Jack's parents get back. It's a few more minutes before he says anything.

"How bad is it that I immediately thought to text Kent?"

Jack rolls onto his side. "I did, too."

Bitty remembers seeing Jack after he played against Kent for the first time. He said he wanted to throw up in his mouth when they first faced off against each other, that he was fucking up so bad he almost got benched. Confidentially, Bitty was worried Kent might heckle him, because they hadn't seen each other since that one night, and nothing throws a guy's game off more than _remember when I fucked you in front of your boyfriend_ , but Jack said it was clean, and then Bitty felt bad for even considering it. Providence won in overtime and Kent gave Jack a gloved fist bump and, more specifically, a _look_ , that was caught on camera and shared in three-second animated loops all over the internet. 

"Can I actually?"

"Sure."

Bitty grabs his phone out of his shorts and debates what to text Kent. He goes with _guess what I did_  and an upside-down smiley face emoji. Jack watches him and laughs.

"That's good."

Bitty sends it and drops his phone into the sheets, rolls over and braces himself over Jack and kisses him. He thinks about how inextricably Kent has been woven throughout this, and how present Jack was when he was with Kent. They're so tangled up in each other that maybe there's no way to separate them completely anymore, no matter how far apart they are, and whether they're aware of it or not. But Bitty has a hunch that they're both very aware of it. He tries to put together the words he'd need to say something about it, to tell Jack that he knows, and that it's okay. Kent comes up a fair amount in their conversations, but now feels like the time to drive it home.

He lies down next to Jack, both of them turned on their sides and cradled into one another, Jack's hand stroking absentmindedly through his hair.

Bitty says, "I want to thank you again, by the way. For the whole thing with Kent, in Vegas. And back in March."

He's too close to see Jack's expression, but he sort of laughs. "It's really fine."

"I know, but ... I know you two have a lot of _everything_ , always, history or whatever, and it's—it's okay. I just want you to know that I'm okay with all of it. Between you two."

He doesn't say exactly what _it_ is, but he figures Jack knows by the way he goes quiet. They're usually on the same page, especially regarding Kent, but his heart is racing anyways.

"You're too good to me," Jack says into his hair. Bitty kisses his throat.

"You deserve it. Really."

"I do not." Jack's hand moves down his back, up his side, over his hip. "You're so _nice_. If anyone else ... for us to even talk about this, you're so ... nice."

"I love you," Bitty says, because it either explains everything or is a symptom of it. "And you love me. So if we're both, uh, sort of in love with Kent, too, that's ... There are worse things." Jack moves him back far enough to look at, shocked, but before he can say anything, Bitty frantically continues. "I mean, if you wanted to have him more involved in this, we could talk, I know he's your—more than he and I, you're both—"

Jack kisses him, long and soft, just a press of lips, a slow slide.

"No," he whispers. "This is good, what we're doing now." He moves back enough to look at Bitty, eyes shining. "But, you're ... with him?"

"You're very hard to separate from one another." Bitty smooths his hair back, soft, maternal, and Jack gets this knowing look, resignation and _yeah, alright._  "And that's okay. But, you love him. You honestly don't want to try having anything more with him, _and_ me? Relationship-wise."

Jack says, "Eric," exasperated, and Bitty shivers. Jack kisses him like it's the only thing he can do, cups his shoulder in one big hand, lets Bitty stroke his hair back.

Bitty loves him. He loves Jack Zimmermann, who loves his mom, who loves Kent Parson, who's starting to love himself, who loves _him_. When they break apart, Jack heaves a sigh.

"He was seventeen," he says quietly, "and his first boyfriend had a drug addiction, then overdosed. I still can't look at him without remembering. He wasn't always good about it, but ... I don't think I can ever, ever apologize enough."

"It wasn't your fault."

"Yeah, it was. It wasn't _his_."

Bitty's voice gets wobbly. "Jack ..."

"C'mere." Jack drags him closer and Bitty hugs him as tight as he can, and tries very hard not to cry. Jack rubs his back. "It's okay."

"Jack ..."

"I'm okay."

Bitty is in no way crying. He prides himself on never having cried after sex, and he's not going to start, but he does say, "I'm sorry, I love you," all in one breath, like they're a single thought. Jack runs his fingers through his hair.

"I love you too. Don't be sorry."

He hears what Jack's skirting around: it's a ship that has sailed, regardless of anything else. Jack said once, Bitty remembers, about how he and Kent are better around each other with Bitty there, but that's still not a foundation for something more.

Bitty sniffs and rubs his eyes. "Does doing it like this _always_ make you emotional? God, I'm a mess."

"You're always emotional."

"Are you joking?" Bitty laughs. "Just 'cause you hide it doesn't mean I don't know—you're _so_ emotional, lord. You're the softest boy I know."

Jack chuckles. He presses his lips to Bitty's and fits his arms underneath his, moves his hands up his bare back. He runs his lips along Bitty's cheek and breathes him in.

"Don't tell anyone."

 


End file.
